


Law and Lust: A crime of passion

by MidnightAugustMoon



Series: Seven Digits: Short Tales of Love, Hope, and Despair [2]
Category: Michael Jackson (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas, Crime, CrimeSceneInvestigator, Crimes & Criminals, Detective, Detroit, Drama, Drugs, F/M, HIStory Era (Michael Jackson), Hot, Jackson - Freeform, Killing, Love, Michael - Freeform, Michael Jackson - Freeform, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Police, Romance, Sex, Shooting, Snow, Suspense, Sweet, Thriller, Weapons, Winter, csi - Freeform, gun - Freeform, lovemaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:08:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 30,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27780526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidnightAugustMoon/pseuds/MidnightAugustMoon
Summary: Detective Michael Jackson is suave, hardworking, and dedicated to his profession. He's the "best of the best" when it comes to solving cases, but also a mere man. After questioning a beautiful woman about the murder of her husband—his deepest fears become a reality.This is an alternate universe story, and Michael is not famous. Nonetheless, the character still possesses aspects of his life and a few of his characteristics/mannerisms with a unique twist.Genre: Romantic SuspenseDisclaimer: All of my stories & characters are fictitious. Various people, places, and events mentioned may or may not have been changed to fit the writer's artistic view, but the characters are completely imaginary.For more content/stories by me, please check out my website at: www.breakodawnclub.com© 2020 by Midnight August MoonAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be produced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
Series: Seven Digits: Short Tales of Love, Hope, and Despair [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1844626
Kudos: 2





	1. Law and Lust: A crime of Passion

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Romantic Suspense structured as an "Inverted Detective Story," aka Howcatchem. 
> 
> Romantic suspense is any romance genre (in the case of this story, it's an erotic romance) that contains a balance of romance and features a mystery, suspense, or thriller plot. As for the "whodunit," aka "who done it?" aspect—as a reader, you'll know the identity of the perpetrator and follow along with the detective as he attempts to solve the case.

"I didn't kill my husband, Detective Jackson, I swear!"  
Cocking his head to the side, Michael emitted a long sigh. He had been questioning the beautiful brunette for the past four hours and had gotten nowhere. "Well, if you didn't kill him, then who?" He sputtered, walking closer towards her. "You were covered in small dots of blood."  
As Michael towered over the suspect, she shifted in her seat. Her butt was beginning to ache from sitting in the hard wooden chair, and to make matters worse—she was still in handcuffs. As her nerves started to unravel from his relentless questioning, she peered up into his piercing dark eyes and began to cry. "For the tenth time already, a masked man attacked me in the basement of my home. After the guy ran off, I went looking for my husband and found him dead in our bedroom."  
Taking a seat before her, he stared directly into her eyes and said, "you do realize if charged, no jury would believe you. I don't believe you. The only reason you weren't charged with a crime is due to insufficient evidence, and no weapon was found.“  
"This is all a misunderstanding," the woman cried. "I loved my husband."  
Looking her over, Michael gave her a quizzical look and said, "where are your injuries from the attack, Mrs. Bell?"  
She hissed. “I’m not answering another question without the presence of my lawyer.” 

***  
When Michael returned home later that night, he couldn’t get Adassa Bell or her alleged crime off his mind. Though she was the fifth suspect he interrogated that day, her case was the one he was most drawn to. “How could someone so beautiful and harmless looking kill her husband?” he said to himself as he climbed into bed. "Even if she obtained the bloodstains while tending her husband, they'd be large—and not a spray of tiny dots."  
As he lay on his back with his hands placed behind his head, his phone began to ring. At first, he thought about not answering but quickly changed his mind. It had been a long day, and he needed a distraction from the alluring and alleged murderer who was being housed in cellblock 29.  
“Hey, baby. What are you up to?” a silky voice cooed through the phone’s receiver.  
“Oh, nothing much. I just got home from work. What are you doing?”  
“I'm just sitting here thinking about you. I miss you.”   
“That’s cute.” Michael laughed. “After one good fuck you miss me. You barely know me.”  
“And what an amazing fuck it was." She moaned then giggled. "I can’t get that night out of my mind. You’re very talented.”  
Michael smirked. "That good, huh?"  
She moaned again. "Yes, so damn good."  
The searing memory caused Michael's groin to harden. Just before ending his shift one late Saturday night, he spotted a cute copper-toned woman with an ass to die for. She was standing on the corner of Gratiot Avenue, pacing up and down the sidewalk. On one of Detroit's most violent corridors, there were only two things she could be up to at such an ungodly hour—drug dealing or prostitution. Based on her style of clothing, he chose the latter. It was a cold winter's night, forty degrees Fahrenheit at most. She wore a black mini skirt and short faux-fur jacket that barely covered her ass.  
In his black Mercedes-Benz, Michael pulled up beside the woman with the sexy strut and then rolled down his window. "What's a pretty lady like you doing in this rough part of the city?" He said silkily, a sly grin curving his lips.  
Placing her hands on her hips, the woman approached his car slowly, her black stiletto pumps clicking against the concrete. "Please spare me the cheesy pick-up lines. You trying to get your dick sucked tonight or what?"  
"How much you askin'?"  
"$20, baby . . . But since you're kind of easy on the eyes, I'll give you a five-dollar discount."   
Michael chuckled. "Gee, thanks. But the discount won't be necessary. If you do a good job, I might even throw in a tip."  
"Well, come on, baby. I ain't got all night," she sassed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "You wanna do this in your car or the alley?"  
"Neither, I have a better idea."  
"Baby! Are you there? Hello?" She giggled.  
"Yeah, I'm here." Michael laughed, snapping out of his thoughts. While he didn't make a habit out of sleeping with prostitutes, he found Constance intriguing. Unlike some of the other prostitutes working Gratiot Avenue, she was well put together. She sported a neat asymmetrical hair-cut, her clothing was clean, and she didn't appear to be strung out on heroin or some other harsh substance. After convincing her it was safe to accompany him to a nearby hotel the first night they met, she gave him the best blow-job of his life. It was so good that he changed his mind about arresting her.  
"So, um . . . other than thinking about me, are you busy tonight?" He smirked. "Truth be told, I'm kind of lonely."  
Knowing precisely what he wanted, Constance licked her lips and said, "I'm never too busy for you, baby."  
In a husky tone that sent shivers down her spine, Michael chuckled. "Meet me at the Roseville Holiday Inn over on Gratiot Ave."  


━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Author's Note:  
For more content/stories by me, please check out my website at: www.breakodawnclub.com


	2. Law and Lust: A Crime of Passion

"Mmm . . . That was just as good as the first time," Constance purred as she nuzzled Michael's neck. "How'd you learn to fuck like that?"  
He chuckled deep. "I bet you say that to all the guys."  
"Actually, I don't. In this line of work, it's a rare occurrence when a man gets me off as well."  
"Hey, what can I say? I'm not like other guys."  
As Michael kissed her collarbone, his pager began to beep. Though a bit disappointed, it was what he signed up for when he joined the police force several years ago. His hours were crazy then, and they sure as hell were insane now. On most nights, he was lucky if he got five hours of sleep.   
After taking a glance at his pager, Michael emitted a long sigh. He had received a code '10-40' alerting him to get his ass down to the police department asap.   
"I'm sorry, Constance, but I have to go." Michael frowned. "Maybe we can hook up again in the near future?"  
"Is everything alright?" she asked, furrowing her eyebrows.  
"Yeah. Everything is alright."  
"So, why do you have to leave?"  
"It's complicated."  
"Your old lady checking up on ya, huh?"  
"Naw. I'm single." He simpered. "It's my job. I'm needed down at the office—it's an emergency."  
Sitting upwards, Constance tilted her head to the side and said, "you must have a really important job if you're needed at 3 am." The only men she knew who had emergencies in the middle of the night were cops, lawyers, and doctors. As she took in Michael's handsome but gentle features, she tried guessing which of the three he could be.   
"Are you a doctor?" She blurted.   
"No, baby. I'm not a doctor . . . And I'm not a cop either," he chuckled and answered quickly, hoping to throw her off. More often than not, he never told random hook-up's his line of work, especially not prostitutes. And as odd as it might be with him being a detective and all, he often let 'ladies of the night' off the hook. Unless the woman had a severe drug addiction or committed a more serious offense, he knew that some were just trying to make a quick buck to survive.   
Hopping out of bed, Michael ran his fingers through his freshly cut, cropped hair. He was the most gorgeous client Constance had ever laid eye's on. He was tall, thin, but muscular and had the most adorable belly button she had ever seen—he was an 'outie.' She had seen a lot of men naked in her life, but none of them came close to the fine specimen of a man with the deep and dark, beautiful eyes standing before her. As she watched him get dressed with urgency, she smiled and said, "Ok, baby. Well, just dial me up when you're free. We all gotta make a living, right?"   
"Right." He smiled in return as he tucked his index finger under her chin. "You take care. Stay safe out there."   
Michael knew that being a prostitute wasn't easy and genuinely cared for her well being. Many times he'd investigated violence against sex workers and, in a few instances—murder. It broke his heart completely. Investigating the senseless killings of women and children were the most challenging things about his job. Anytime an innocent person was murdered, it bothered him deeply, but those were the ones that gave him nightmares. It was one reason why he hadn't had a serious relationship since joining the police force. He had seen too much. He wouldn't be able to cope with something terrible happening to his significant other or child. So, for him, he thought it would be better to remain single. And besides that, he was rarely home and barely had time for himself. There was no way he could be a dedicated father and husband, he often thought.   
Once Michael was fully dressed, he placed a small stack of bills on the nightstand and said, "thank-you for the delightful evening, Constance. I have to get going, but I'm looking forward to seeing you again soon."  
"Same here, Michael. Thanks for being such a wonderful customer." She smiled. "I hope you remembered to leave me a tip."  
Michael chuckled. "But what about my discount?"  
"That's for first-time customers only. And admittedly, I was just making sure I got my full due. I've been short-changed before."  
"I love me a smart woman." He laughed huskily and then gave her a tender kiss on the forehead. "Have a nice day—I'll be in touch."  
When Michael left the hotel room, Constance picked up the stack of bills he left for her. "One hundred, two hundred, three hundred!" She counted aloud as her eyes widened in surprise. "He must be a drug dealer."

  



	3. Law and Lust: A Crime of Passion

Michael frowned at the sight of falling snow. Winters in Detroit were brutal, and snowstorms often popped up out of nowhere. Treacherous weather conditions made his investigations all the more difficult, and it took him longer to get around the city. He longed for the days of summer but not the higher crime rates that usually followed; it was a catch 22 situation. Last summer alone, he was the lead detective on over 30 homicide cases. Truth be told—he needed a vacation. The vacation he had been planning for several years but had yet to take. Every time he tried to make his dream vacation a reality, guilt sank in. He was the best of the best, and crime never took a day off, so why should he?  
As Michael pulled into the parking lot of the Detroit Police Department 7th Precinct, he let out a heavy sigh. He'd much rather be in bed with Constance having some of the most fantastic sex he'd had in years, but per usual, work came first. "Michael, calm your dick, and do your job!" His brain shouted. "Well, technically, I was doing my job." He chuckled and answered himself.  
Michael knew that he shouldn't be sleeping with prostitutes, and for the most part, he didn't. Constance was the second prostitute he had slept with since joining the police force, despite it being legal for Michigan law enforcement to do so. And though there had been unfounded reports of detectives and police officers taking advantage of the legal loophole, Michael never once threatened to arrest a streetwalker for not having sex with him or make her do something against her will. He thought guys who took advantage of women were scum and should be dealt with accordingly.  
Leaning his head back against the plush leather headrest of his tricked out Mercedes-Benz, Michael inhaled and exhaled loudly. He didn't feel like dealing with his hard-nosed Sergeant and hoped it was nothing serious, but a page at 4 am was always serious.  
No sooner had Michael walked into the station than a voice boomed, "about time you got your ass down here, Jackson. The Sergeant has it in for you. He's been in a bad mood all evening. What'd you do now?"  
As Michael made his way across the room, he paused before knocking on Sergeant Grayson's door and hissed. "Shut the hell up, Bennett. Stop sticking your Goddamn nose in my fucking business. Worry about your own cases—oop's, my bad—you don't have any."  
When the entire office erupted in thunderous applause and laughter, Detective Bennett scowled at Michael and said, "a'ight, smart ass. Keep on. It's only, but so many times, Sergeant Grayson is going to keep letting you do what you want. You're not special! Your ass can get placed on desk duty as well."  
Michael chuckled. "I'll deal with that when it happens."  
Giving a few rhythmic knocks on Sergeant Grayson's office door, Michael took a deep breath. He wasn't scared of his superior in the least, but it was past 4 am, and he was still exhausted from the day before. He didn't get any sleep while he was with Constance, and nor did he plan to. All he needed was to be robbed, and his identity found out. He had heard countless stories of detectives and police officers who had been robbed in their sleep after having sex with prostitutes.  
"Get in here, Jackson," a deep burly voiced yelled through the door. Compared to Michael's gentle but deep timbered tone, one would think he couldn't hold his ground with his Sergeant, but when he was angry, he could respond in an aggressive matter that could shake someone to their core.  
"How'd you know it was me?" Michael snickered, raising his eyebrows.  
"You're the only one around here that knocks like they're performing a drum solo," Sergeant Grayson said sarcastically. "Have a seat."  
After sitting down on the opposite side of Sergeant Grayson's desk, Michael cleared his throat and said, "so, what's up?"  
"Remember the woman that was arrested on suspicion of killing her husband?"  
Forget her? How could he? Michael thought. She was the most gorgeous suspect he had ever laid eyes on. She had silky tawny skin, mysteriously beautiful gray eyes, a glorious afro that reached the heavens, and a body that could make the strongest willed man fall to his knees.  
"Yeah, I remember her. The chick in cellblock 29." He smiled wryly. "She said she didn't kill her husband, but I don't believe her. I'm planning to go to her house today to collect more evidence, but I need a quick recharge before I begin my investigation. It's been a long week, and I've been running on fumes.  
"Sounds good, Jackson, but I wanted to inform you—she made bail around two hours ago and has been released."  
"Made bail? How? Her bail was set at a million dollars!" Michael spoke in disbelief, jumping up from his seat. "You mean to tell me she posted the required 10%? What the fuck!"   
Sergeant Grayson banged on his desk and yelled, "damn it! Calm down, Jackson."  
"Calm down? Why should I calm down? The chick posted $100,000 bail!"  
"Ok, and? She, her family, friends, or someone she knows is wealthy. It happens."  
Michael nodded his head and laughed contemptuously. "Yes, you're right. I'm trippin . . . We've had a plethora of suspects able to make $100,000 bails on the regular."  
"Don't patronize me, Jackson," Sergeant Grayson spoke briskly as he stepped from behind his desk and stood face to face with Michael. "Keep on being a wise-ass, and you just might find yourself suspended!"  
Michael folded his arms and smirked. "Come on now! You and I both know that's a lie. I'm the best detective you've got."  
Sergeant Grayson knew Michael was right. He was the best detective on the force and had no intention of suspending him unless he did something idiotic. Though he hated Michael's ballsy behavior, he respected him for it. Michael always stood up for what he believed in and never backed down—it was a big part of what made him so great at his job.  
"Listen, Jackson. I had a long day, and you've had a long night. Go home and get some rest for the next 24 hours. If anything detrimental happens while you're away, I'll take care of it."  
"Thank you, sir. As much as I would love to take that 24 hours, time is of the essence. I just need a good 5 to 8 hours of rest, and I'll be fine."


	4. Law and Lust: A Crime of Passion

"What did you tell them?"  
"I told them I didn't do it. What else would I tell them?" Adassa said quickly, looking out of the car's passenger window. She had been released from jail, and her nerves were still on edge from discovering her husband's dead body.  
"If you so much as utter my name to the authorities, I'll make sure no one ever hears from you again," Dontrell said gruffly, as he ran a Glock 18 up and down the left side of Adassa's neck. This was her second time seeing the gun. The same gun he used to kill her husband.   
Tears welling in Adassa's eyes, her lips began to tremble. "I won't tell them anything, I promise. But answer me one thing—why'd you have to kill him?"  
"I did it for us," Dontrell said softly. "I kept asking you to leave him, and since you were dragging your feet, I made the decision a little easier for you."  
Not knowing exactly how to reply, Adassa put on her best fake smile and kissed Dontrell on the cheek. She was scared to death and didn't want to say anything that would upset him. Her heart was racing a mile a minute, and she wanted nothing more but to get away from him, but she knew that wasn't possible. If only she hadn't cheated on her husband, she wouldn't be in such a dire predicament.  
"So, what do we do now? I'm frightened, Dontrell." Adassa uttered shakily as she lowered her head. "The detective that questioned me didn't believe my story. I can't return home until the authorities have completed their investigation, and I need some clean clothes. My old ones were covered in blood and taken as evidence. Once my husband's DNA is matched to the blood on my shirt—I'm a goner. Like that detective said, 'No jury will ever believe me.' "  
"Everything is going to be all right." Dontrell smiled as he placed his index finger under her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Just stick to the alibi we came up with."  
"Ok, baby." Adassa sniffled as she blinked back her tears, nodding her head up and down. "Would you mind taking me to a hotel?"  
Dontrell sighed. "Sure. Though I much rather you stay with me, it's probably best we keep away from each other for a little while. The authorities will be looking for every clue that links you to your husband's death . . . By the way, where's your necklace?"  
Adassa touched her neck. "Shit! It must have fallen off somewhere—I'm so sorry, Dontrell." Though she didn't care for skulls and found the necklace a little frightening, she accepted it because she didn't want to upset him.  
"Damn it!" He hissed. "When you're allowed to return home, look around for it. I'll check the alley in a few days—right now; the block is hot."  
"And what if the cops already have it?" Adassa panicked.  
"Then they just have it." Dontrell hunched his shoulders and let out a heavy sigh.  
"But aren't you worried about them finding out who you are?"  
"I mean, the less evidence the cops have, the better." He laughed sarcastically. "But naw, I'm not too worried; anybody could have that type of necklace. I'm more so upset because of how much it cost—that's $100,000 gone."  
"I can pay you back!"  
"Listen, though I'm all about my money, I won't let you do that—my lady doesn't have to pay for a thing." He smiled and then took her in his arms. "All I need for you to do is stick to the script and keep my name out of your mouth." 

***  
Later that night, Adassa lay awake in bed, thinking about what to do next. She wanted to leave Dontrell but couldn't. She was too afraid. Dontrell was a powerful man, and she knew he could make her disappear in the blink of an eye. Had she known his profession, she would have thought twice before getting involved with him.  
"Oh, God! What am I going to do?" Adassa cried. "This is all my fault. My husband is dead. Fucking dead! And on top of that, I'll probably be charged and convicted if Dontrell doesn't kill me first . . . My life is ruined!"  
Though Adassa was no longer "in love" with her husband, she still loved him. For the past several years, she had been in a sexless marriage, and things weren't getting any better. When she and her husband, Richard, first married, they were like bunny rabbits and made love regularly. But as time went by, their sex life slowed down and became almost non-existent.  
At first, Adassa started feeling insecure but quickly came to her senses. She wasn't vain or conceited in the least, but she knew she was an attractive woman. Men of every race, color, and creed practically fell at her feet. She was what some would deem a "trophy wife." And though she didn't mind being spoiled endlessly, she didn't marry Richard for his money—she found him extremely charming and sexy as well.  
Before Richard met Adassa, he had no problems getting sex—merely stated, Richard was a "Player." He was a successful and rich businessman that owned luxury resorts all over the globe. Obtaining beautiful women for his kinks and pleasure was no problem, but when he met Adassa, all of that changed, or at least he promised it would. From the moment Richard met Adassa at one of his resorts in Puerto Rico, he was immediately drawn to her. She wasn't just beautiful, but stunning. He had to have her.  
After a year of dating and being solely committed to one another, the two got married. But it wasn't long before Richard returned to his old ways. His old ways consisted of sleeping with many women and then replacing them when he grew bored.  
Unfortunately for Adassa, that meant her as well. She tried talking to Richard about his infidelity, but he refused to admit it. Even after showing him the many women's phone numbers she found in his pants pockets and the lipstick stains on his shirts that weren't hers, he vehemently denied cheating on her. She often thought about leaving him but decided to stay. If he could have his cake and eat it too, then why couldn't she? Richard had provided her a life of comfort and stability—but Dontrell lit her fire and satisfied her physically.


	5. Law and Lust: A Crime of Passion

"Damn it!" Michael groaned as he tossed and turned in bed. He couldn't sleep. Though he was physically tired, his mind was wide awake. Even when given a chance to get some rest, he couldn't. Maybe he'd take that 24 hours off after all. Rolling onto his side, he closed his eyes, breathed deep, and tried focusing on something other than work, but he couldn't. His mind was running in circles, wondering what evidence the CSI's had collected in connection with his latest case.  
What might come as a surprise to most, Michael rarely accompanied the CSI agents during their investigations of the cases he was handling. That only happened in the movies. Usually, he would let the CSI's document the crime scene, gather physical evidence, and then await their report. Once they cleared him for access to the scene, that's when he would collect additional clues and information that might have been overlooked.  
After several more minutes of thinking about the case, his breathing shallowed, and his eyelids closed—finally, sleep had arrived.  
Later that afternoon, Michael awoke to the constant ringing of his telephone. His initial thought was to rip the entire phone line out of the wall, but he knew that wasn't a good idea. Sitting upwards, he ran his fingers through his hair. It was all over his head, going in every direction—a tell-tale sign of a deep slumber. He had exceeded his typical five hours of sleep and got a good solid seven.  
"What now?" Michael groaned as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "I knew I should have left the phone off the hook."  
Snatching the phone off the nightstand beside his bed, he then placed the base station in his lap, picked up the receiver, and huffed, "Hello, how may I help you?"  
"Hello, Detective Jackson. This is CSI agent Natise Mckee speaking. I found something down at the crime scene that you should come and take a look at. Oh, and before you ask, I have secured the perimeter and have finished collecting all physical evidence."  
Michael chuckled. "Oh, you know me so well!"  
"Yeah. A bit too well." Natise muttered.  
"Huh, what was that?" Michael shouted, pretending not to hear.  
"You need to quit while you're ahead, Detective Jackson."  
"No need to be so formal, Ms. McKee," Michael said wryly. "I've seen you naked."  
Natise sighed. "Detective Jackson, please—now is not the time. We made a promise to keep things professional while on the job, remember?"  
"Yeah-yeah, I remember. Please forgive me."  
"You're forgiven. Now hurry up and get your ass down here!"  
"Ai Ai, Captain!"  
"You're such an ass, Jackson."  
"Speaking of which, when can I see yours again?"  
"Ugh!" Natise replied in an exasperated tone. "Just hurry and get down here. I don't have all day."  
"Alright, geez," Michael bellowed. "Relax. I'm on my way."   
Though Natise could be a bit temperamental at times, she and Michael were friends and loved bantering with one another; they were two peas in a pod. The two had met at a bar several months ago and would occasionally hook-up for sex, but that all changed when Natise landed a job with the Detroit CSI Unit. Neither she nor Michael felt as though they should carry-on with their sexual romps since they were now co-workers of sorts. Nevertheless, being that they were imperfect individuals, they still occasionally flirted, but that's where they drew the line. 

***  
When Michael arrived at the crime scene, he carefully studied his surroundings before exiting his car. He never knew if or when a criminal would try to kill him for investigating their case.  
After making sure the coast was clear, Michael got out of his car and jogged over to Natise. She was standing outside of the forensics van, smoking a cigarette. Her russet brown, coily curls were styled in a fluffy high bun, and her deep golden-bronze skin glistened in the sunlight. And despite the white shapeless protective jumpsuit she wore—her womanly curves still managed to shine in all their glory.  
"Rough day, huh?" Michael said tenderly, removing the cigarette from her hand.  
"How'd you guess?" She chuckled.  
"I know you." He smiled and then took a puff of her cigarette. "You only smoke when you're stressed."  
Removing her cigarette from his hand, she smiled and said, "I know you as well. You also only smoke when you're stressed, so what's up?"  
"You go first."  
"Today alone, I've seen five dead bodies. I love my job, but sometimes it gets to me, you know?"  
"Yes, I know." Michael sympathized. "We both need a vacation . . . Maybe we should take one together. Just as friends, of course."  
"Now, you know better." Natise laughed. "I love you to death as a friend, but that won't be happening."  
"I knew you'd say that. But even if you'd said yes, I still wouldn't take a vacation. The 7th precinct is understaffed, and there are loads of cases that need to be solved."  
"But, you have to take time for yourself as well, Detective Jackson."  
Turning to face her, Michael cupped her chin and said, "Natise, please. Call me, Michael."  
"But we're at work."  
"Please, we're friends. I know we're co-workers and all, but even on the job, I just need a friend at times."  
Natise smiled. "I understand, Michael."  
"Thank-you."  
His gaze trailing from her face, down her arm, then settling on her hand, he stared at the burning cigarette she seemed to neglect. "Are you going to finish that?"  
Passing him the cigarette, Natise shook her head sideways and laughed. "Yeah, you're most certainly stressed."


	6. Law and Lust: A Crime of Passion

"Whew! When I ran the suspect's information, I saw that her husband had money, but damn!" Michael whistled, looking up at the 20-foot ceiling adorned with a massive crystal chandelier. "This house is magnificent. But all in all, I shouldn't be surprised—all of the residences on this side of town are expensive."  
Pointing towards a black leather handbag laying on the sofa, Natise sighed and then simpered. "Yeah. Homegirl definitely chose the right man. That's a two thousand dollar Coco Chanel purse!" When I first saw it, I thought about gifting myself for all of the hard work I've done here today."  
Michael sighed. "You know, money isn't everything, Natise."  
"I hear what you're saying, but everyone's got a price."  
Raising an eyebrow, Michael twisted his lips and said, "See, this is why you're single—you expect too damn much. When we first met at Abick's bar, I had to buy your ass three drinks before you agreed to go home with me."  
Natise's throat went dry, but not because of what Michael said. She knew she liked to be wined and dined, but rather, it was how his face looked at that precise moment. Whenever he'd cock his eyebrows, it made her weak. Besides Michael's, she had never seen a man with such sexy arches. And his eyes. So intense, so breathtaking—she would always remember his penetrating stare when they used to fuck.  
Snapping out of her thoughts, Natise cleared her throat in an attempt to regain her focus. She was happy that she and Michael were friends. But alas, she was human, and no matter how hard she tried to ignore his sex appeal—the man still had the ability to make her pussy quiver. "Well, I knew you were good for it." Natise chuckled. "you were rocking an exquisite Versace watch."  
"How in the hell did you see that? I always make sure to keep it covered with the sleeve of my shirt."  
"Whenever you'd take a sip of your drink, I could see it peeping through just a little."  
"Fucking eagle eyes!" Michael bantered. "But that's why you're good at your job—nothing slips past you."  
A smug smile appearing on Natise's face, she winked at him and said, "Precisely, my dear."  
Michael rolled his eyes and huffed. "Don't let the compliment go to your head; I was only trying to be nice. Now, what did you want me to see?"  
After Natise escorted Michael to the bedroom, his eyes scanned every inch of the room, finally landing on the four-poster bed where Adassa's husband, Richard Bell, took his final breath. Though the CSI's had cleaned up the room and collected the bedsheets, the mattress was soaked in body fluids and blood.  
Michael grimaced. "Did you find any bullet casings?"  
"We found roughly around 800 9mm casings."  
"Pardon? I'm not sure I heard you correctly. Did you say 800?"  
"I couldn't believe it either. But yes, that's what I said. Warning, don't eat anything before viewing the crime scene pictures—some of the most gruesome shit I've ever seen."  
"Something isn't adding up." Michael pinched his chin as his brain shifted into high gear. "There's no handgun on the market that holds more than 100 rounds."  
Natise tilted her head and hunched her shoulders. "Clip n' reload, perhaps?"  
"Nah! That takes too much time. The only way that would've worked is if she had several magazines preloaded. Neighbors reported gunshots at 8:45 pm, lasting only one minute."  
"Must have been one hell of a gun, I presume."  
"I have a good hunch as to what type of gun that was used, but how in the hell would she get her hands on that type of weapon?"  
"And what type of gun would that be?" Natise eyed Michael curiously. She could see the wheels spinning wildly in his head and knew he was on to something.  
"The only type of handgun that uses 9mm bullets and has full-automatic capabilities is a Glock 18. The damn thing can fire 1200 rounds a minute—that's double the amount of an AK-47. It's a handful even for experienced shooters—not to mention—illegal. The firearm was banned in America earlier this year."  
Turning towards him, Natise stroked his cheek tenderly and said, "please be careful while investigating this case. I know you're smart and can handle yourself, but given the information you just shared with me, I'm a bit more worried than usual."  
Michael smiled, wrapping his hands delicately around her waist. Her concern for him touched him deeply. "Don't worry, baby. I'll be alright."  
Without thinking, Natise stood on her tippy toes, cupped his face, and then kissed his lips. As jolts of electricity pulsated throughout her body, she moaned into his mouth, savoring the sweet taste of his luscious lips. Unlike their kissing in the past, this time felt different, and it scared her. When their kiss came to an end, Natise pulled out of Michael's grasp and cleared her throat. Her senses were reeling as she tried making sense of what she'd done. "I'm sorry, Michael. I didn't mean to kiss you," she whispered, slowly backing away from him."  
Stepping towards her, he gazed into her eyes and said, "there's no need to be sorry. You liked it, didn't you?"  
"I did."  
"That's good to know." He smiled. "I liked it too. Well, uh, we should get back to work. You don't have all day remember?"  
Natise gave Michael a nervous smile and then went speechless as she got lost in her thoughts. She felt relieved that Michael hadn't pressed her further about the kiss, but at the same time, it confused the hell out of her. She knew he was still attracted to her, so she half expected him to strip her naked and fuck her right then and there.  
"Earth to Natise! Earth to Natise." Michael chuckled as he waved his hand in front of her face.  
"Forgive me; my brain trailed off."  
"Where? Off a cliff?"  
Gently popping him upside the head, Natise sucked her teeth and said, "shut up! You always got something smart to say."  
"And so do you! Now, I'm going to ask you for the second time this afternoon, what is it that you want to show me?"  
When Natise went quiet once more, Michael shook her gently by the shoulders and said, "Natise, now is not the time to give me the silent treatment. What the hell is up with you today? Do you have something to show me or not?"  
Natise let out a heavy sigh as she grabbed ahold of Michael's hand. Guiding him further inside the bedroom, she stopped abruptly just before they reached the bed. "Look down," she stammered as she pointed at a shiny object lying directly at their feet. "That's what I wanted to show you."  
On the floor lay a Sterling Silver "Skull and Crossbones" necklace coated in a light glaze of dried blood. After looking between the distance of the necklace and the bed, Michael made a few quick mental calculations and muttered, "shit! Since when did the Detroit Reds start accepting woman gang members?" Michael said wryly, as he donned a pair of plastic gloves.  
"Maybe it's something new they're doing; who knows?" Natise shivered. "All I know is that they're dangerous and not to be fucked with."  
As Michael inspected the necklace, he noticed the number 8 engraved on the back of the skull. "Have you collected the DNA from this?"  
"Of course, I have, or else I wouldn't have allowed you to touch it."  
"When will your report be available?"  
"I should have it completed in two weeks or less—I'll call you as soon as it's ready."  
"Sounds good. Would you mind if I held onto the necklace?"  
"No, I don't mind. I left it there for you. I figured it would help you get a jump start on your investigation. But please, keep this between us. If my department head finds out I broke the Chain of Custody—my ass would be grass."  
"I know, Natise," Michael said briskly, as he carefully placed the necklace in a ziplock bag. "Thanks so much for all of your help here today. It means a lot to me. Is there anything I can do for you in return? A ride home, perhaps? It's late out, and I'd feel much better knowing you got home safely."  
"Thanks, Detective Jackson."  
"Michael," he corrected.  
"You just won't let up, will you?" Natise smiled, then chuckled. "Alright, Michael! But in the office and around colleagues—it's Detective Jackson and Agent Mckee, capisce?  
"Capito!" Michael retorted. "Now, what about that ride home?"  
"I'm a grown woman, sir. I'll manage."  
Michael sighed. "Just call me when you get home, please?"  
"I will."


	7. Law and Lust: A Crime of Passion

When Michael returned home, he checked in with Natise and then got to work. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows; he removed his tie. He was in desperate need of a shave, but it would have to wait. Adassa's case had his mind running around in circles, and he was ready to start connecting the dots.  
Taking a deep breath, Michael leaned forward as he accessed the dark web. The part of the web not indexed by search engines. In fact, it was only 6% of the internet, and he needed specialized software to access it. If the deep web was scary to most, then the dark web was genuinely horrifying. Hackers, drug trafficking, scammers, political protest, murders, and every type of illicit activity that one could conjure was on the dark web. It wasn't for the faint of heart, and he heavily advised people against accessing it unless they enjoyed running the risk of being hacked or scammed.  
As Michael began his investigation, he searched various drug and gun trafficking sites that brokered deals with gangs—specifically the Detroit Reds. A 50+ gang that was notorious for wreaking havoc in the 48205 ZIP code, also known as the Red Zone—located on the Eastside, between Gratiot Avenue and Kelly Road. Numerous shootings, murders, drug dealings, and robberies were only a fraction of their daily criminal activities.  
He was well informed on the Detroit Reds and wanted to get them off the streets, but unfortunately, one thing stood in his way; he couldn't do it alone. And though a special task force had been created to take them down, it was slow going. The FBI was helping local law enforcement combat gangs in many big cities, and Detroit had to await their turn.  
Retrieving the necklace he had taken from the crime scene, Michael began looking at photos of various Detroit Red's. He knew they sported a tattoo of the ominous skull logo and gang name, but he had never seen any of them donning jewelry of it. And sure, while there was the chance of the necklace being non-affiliated, it was slim. The number 8 was also their identifying gang number, and it would be one hell of a coincidence.  
Deciding to call it a night, Michael closed his laptop and pinched his eyes. After looking at thousands upon thousands of pictures of Detroit Red's, he hadn't come across a single one wearing the necklace, nor had he found any information about them smuggling banned weapons such as the Glock 18 was used in the killing of Adassa's husband.  
Later that night, as Michael drifted off to sleep, the kiss he shared with Natise played repeatedly in his brain. There was no denying that he was attracted to her, but over the last several months, he began to care for her deeply. Apart from a few friendly acquaintances, he had no friends, and for the most part, he preferred to keep it that way. He never allowed himself to get too close to anyone, but with her, it was different. Never in his life did he think he'd go from random hook-up's with Natise to her being his best friend—even if unbeknownst to her.

***  
"Good morning, Mr. Wheeler. How are you today?" Michael greeted kindly as he sat in a secluded corner of Trinosophes Cafe. "The shop looks great! I love the new artwork. The Bathing of Apollo is one of my favorite paintings."  
"Good morning, Detective Jackson. I'm doing well . . . I hope you haven't been doing too shabby yourself. And thanks for the compliment. However, I must admit—the painting's nudity has taken me some time to get used to. But my old lady loves it. Gotta make her happy, you know? Or else, I'll be sleeping on the couch for a week."  
Michael smiled. "I'm doing fine, thanks. And I heard that! But as the old saying goes, 'Happy wife—happy life.' By the way, how is she doing? I haven't seen her around the shop as of late."  
"Driving me crazy per usual." Mr. Wheeler laughed. "But to answer your question—she's doing just fine. Since she's been spending more time with our grandkids, she doesn't come into the shop much anymore. I kinda miss working with the old mule, you know?"  
Shaking his head sideways, Michael laughed. In addition to frequenting the cafe for its live music and art exhibits, it could be quite entertaining when Mrs. Wheeler was around. He loved seeing the two tease each other and thought they were the cutest old couple he'd ever seen. They reminded him of how he and Natise interacted with one another, except they weren't married or in their 70s.  
"I'm glad to hear she's doing fine, sir."  
Thanks, Detective Jackson. So, what can I get ya?"  
"I'll have an orange and mango fruit juice, please."  
"How about some food to go with that?"  
"Uh, I'll take a turkey bacon and egg scrambler to go. I don't eat much in the morning."  
Mr. Wheeler gave him a knowing smile. Michael had been a long time customer, and like all of his regulars, he knew what their favorite menu items were. Michael usually ordered fruit juices or teas, but on occasion, he would get breakfast or lunch to go. "Great choice! You gotta keep up your strength to catch all the bad guys."  
Michael sighed and then rubbed his eyes. "Well, in that case—make that juice a double."  
"You got it, kid!" Mr. Wheeler chimed and then trotted off to the kitchen.  
While Michael awaited his order, he decided to catch up on some reading and grabbed the Wall Street Journal off the table. He was a well-read man and loved reading everything from History to positive thinking books. Whenever he would visit local inner-city schools for Career Day, there was one quote he would always leave with the children: "There's a whole new world in books. If you can't afford to travel, you can travel mentally through reading. You can see anything and go any place you want to in reading."  
Michael knew what it was like growing up as a poor black-youth in a city without much opportunity. Before moving to Detroit, he was born and raised in Gary, Indiana. Initially, his dad wanted him to work in the Steel-Mill just as he, but by the 1970s, Gary's Steelworks industry was in a steady decline. Overseas competitors were steadily producing new technology that yielded more products at a faster rate—thus fore causing many American Steel companies to lay off workers and closed their doors forever. But all that aside, Michael was never keen on doing hard manual labor in a sweltering factory. His heart was set on helping people in some sort of way. It didn't matter the job, just as long as he was able to make the world a better place.  
As Michael became engrossed in an article about the historic 1929 Stock Market Crash, the source of his current angst came sauntering into the cafe.  
"Good morning. I'll have two egg and ham breakfast combos to go, please." A soft but confident voice echoed throughout the half-empty cafe.  
When Michael heard the voice, he immediately recognized the silky and smooth cadence that once pleaded with him to stop his relentless questioning.  
"Of all the cafes in all of the towns in all the world, she walks into mine." He chuckled to himself, reciting a modified version of the famous quote from the classic Hollywood film—Casablanca. But this wasn't his cafe, and unlike in the 1942 film, she wasn't his lost love. He was investigating her for committing a horrendous cold-blooded murder.  
As Michael peered at her from behind the newspaper, he admired her beauty. In addition to her stunning grey eyes, he studied how graceful she moved. Her movements were smooth, languid, and gentle. Again he wondered, "how could someone so beautiful and harmless looking kill her husband?" Though Michael knew not to judge a book by its cover, he had a gnawing feeling that she was hiding something.  
As Adassa awaited her order, she removed her long-belted, mauve wool coat. Though it was a bitterly cold day, the cafe was warm, and she was burning up. As she adjusted the cap sleeves of her grey sweater dress, Michael's eyes shot immediately to her arms. They were toned and luscious—not a single blemish in sight. "Well, so much for that tattoo I was hoping to find." He muttered in an exasperated tone, his lips then curling into a wry smile. "Unless she has it tatted somewhere else?"  
Feeling as if someone were watching her, Adassa turned herself around on the barstool and found her suspicions correct. Peering at her from above a newspaper were two deep chocolate orbs. Instantly, her heart skipped a beat. As their gazes locked, each stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. At the sound of a loud crash in the kitchen, both simultaneously snapped out of their trance.  
"Hey, hun! Here's your order," Mr. Wheeler boomed as he popped up before Adassa, causing her to jump for the second time that morning.  
"Wow! That was quick. Thank you, sir."  
Mr. Wheeler winked. "Hey, I couldn't keep a beautiful lady waiting. Hope you enjoy the food."  
"Thanks! I'm sure I will. Have a nice day, Sir," Adassa replied politely as she put on her coat and gathered her things.  
"You're welcome! I wish you a good day as well, Ma'am."  
No sooner had Adassa arrived at the cafe than she left.

***  
After leaving the cafe, Michael ran the license plate number of the vehicle Adassa had gotten into. A deep Candy Apple Red—1995 Venturi 400GT with expensive chrome rims and tinted windows. At first, Michael was going to sit in a booth on the other side of the cafe, but in hindsight, he was glad he hadn't. Instead, he had taken a table next to the window, giving him a clear view of the parking lot.  
"Shit! Well, that doesn't help me one bit." Michael grumbled when he learned the car was registered to Adassa Bell. One of his reasons for looking up the car's information wasn't because of Adassa, but rather the driver. He didn't get a good look at him, but when Adassa opened the door, he was able to get a 10-second glance at his profile. From what Michael could see, he was of average height—brown skin, and muscular with a shaven head.  
Michael shook his head sideways and huffed. "Talk about moving on quickly. Her husband's body isn't even cold, and she's got a new man."  
'It could be her brother, a friend, family member, or church pastor, his brain interjected. But instead, he chose to go with his gut. He had a gnawing feeling that the mystery man was something more.


	8. Law and Lust: A Crime of Passion

It was approaching 7 pm, and Michael could feel a massive headache coming on. He had visited several tattoo parlors all over Detroit and was beyond tired. His original plans were to question anyone that had gotten a tattoo of the skull and crossbones symbol—and though the logo was synonymous with the Detroit Reds, it wasn't exclusive. Initially, he thought due to the design's popularity, it would make his search all the more robust, but it hadn't. In actuality, out of all the shops he visited, no one had gotten a tattoo of the haunting image—least not to any of the tattoo artist's knowledge or according to their appointment books.  
As Michael stood outside of "Penitentiary Tattoos," he adjusted his black fedora and took a long drag out of a Marlboro 100's—an extended version of the popular cigarette. Puffing out smoke through his mouth, he leaned back against the shop's storefront. As he kept a close watch on his surroundings, he spotted a familiar face approaching him.  
"Well, isn't this a pleasant surprise? I didn't know you were into ink." Constance chuckled. "You don't seem like the type. But then again, I didn't think you smoked either."  
"Oh! How so?" Michael retorted, standing upright.  
"Well, for starters, during our hookups, I didn't see any tats on your body, and you smelled delightful—like citrus and lavender with a hint of powder."  
Taking one last puff of his cigarette, Michael tossed it to the ground, stomped it out, and then threw it into the trash. "Great analysis." He grinned. "You should be a detective. And you're partially right—I don't have any tattoos, but I smoke on occasion. So, where are you headed?"  
"Inside! To get a tattoo, of course! I've always wanted one, but I must admit—I'm a little afraid," she said embarrassingly, looking down at the ground. "If you're not too busy, would you mind accompanying me? Maybe even hold my hand? It'll help ease my nerves a bit."  
"Gee, I don't know," Michael said nervously, touching his lower lip with his index finger. It had been a long day, and he was ready to call it a night. But since he couldn't question the tattoo artist without blowing his cover in front of Constance, he thought, "what to hell?" Constance seemed to be a nice woman, and he needed a reprieve from his hectic day. But on the flip side, he had some questions to ask her that might help him in his investigation, but it would have to wait until they were alone. As far as his quest went, he'd just come back the next day. Like the last ten parlors he checked, he figured the results would be the same—no one had gotten the tattoo.  
While awaiting Michael's answer, Constance brushed her body up against his, looked pleadingly into his eyes, and then curved her lips into a sexy pout. "Pretty, please," she uttered softly. "Afterwards, I'll be more than willing to show my gratitude—free of charge."  
Throwing his head back in laughter, he rolled his eyes and then lowered his gaze towards hers. "Alright, alright! What type of man would I be to turn down a damsel in distress?"

***  
Later that night at a nearby hotel, Constance lay on her stomach as Michael admired her new tattoo. The whole process was interesting for him to watch. He thought it was cute that Constance had actually held his hand the entire time and even squeezed it a few times. She said it wasn't too painful, but a few times, the needle hit a sensitive nerve. Michael found the tattoo beautiful and wondered if it had any meaning. On the small of her back, she had gotten a black butterfly with stars surrounding it.  
As Michael traced the outline of the tattoo, he smiled and said, "does it hold a special meaning for you? Butterflies are symbolic."  
"Sorta," Constance replied softly and then closed her eyes.  
"Is that all you're gonna tell me?" Michael chuckled. "But I understand if you don't want to tell me more. I'm just glad you didn't get something like a skull and crossbones." Though Michael was interested in the meaning of her tattoo, he had a case to solve. Since many of the prostitutes he had come across had pimps, he wondered if she had one as well. A few area gangs were known for branding the women working for them with a tattoo, barcode, or pimp name.  
And though Constance hadn't gotten a skull and crossbones tattoo, that's not to say the butterfly couldn't have been some undercover branding. But all in all, he still hoped to get some inside information from her. The Detroit Reds were also known for running prostitution rings, and he wondered if she had crossed their path or had any dealings with them.  
Fluttering her eyes open, Constance grimaced. "Oh, God, no! Anything with a skull and crossbones reminds me of the Detroit Reds. I can't stand those bastards. One of their gang members tried to manipulate me into working for him, but I know the game. I told him to kick rocks and then hightailed my ass out of his hotel room. I didn't even take the money after servicing him. I wanted no connections to them whatsoever!"  
"Wow! That's crazy." Michael exclaimed in mock shock. Though what she told him was of no surprise, he had to play along. "I'm sorry, please forgive my ignorance on this subject. But how did he try to manipulate you?"  
"Oh, the usual. He told me he could give me everything I've ever wanted and flashed money in my face . . . Money I knew I wasn't gonna get if I worked for him. Many of the ladies that have pimps never see a dime. The pimps just give them what they need—clothes, food, and shelter mainly. While having a pimp can bring in business and offer a level of protection, I prefer to work for myself. Most pimps use and abuse their women. The money I make is mine, and I answer to no one!"  
"Hey! I get it," Michael replied gently while stroking her back. "And first and foremost, no woman deserves to be disrespected."  
Constance sighed. "I wish more men were like you. All of these grimy customers and damn street gangs that use and abuse women can rot! Especially that damn Dontrell and the Detroit Reds. So many of my friends have gotten tangled up with those low-life's."  
"Well, I'm no saint," Michael smiled, "but I do respect women. I'm sorry to hear what has happened to you. Please, stay safe out there."  
"I'm trying to, baby. After a week or so, I'm out of Detroit. I'm moving to New York to study fashion. They don't call me 'Catwalk Constance' for nothing! I design my own clothes."  
Michael smiled, remembering the first time he met Constance on Gratiot Ave. She most certainly reminded him of a model on the Catwalk—it was what made him stop his car. She had gorgeous legs, and her stride was sexy and confident. "I don't blame you . . . Gotta go for your dreams, ya know?"  
"Yeah, I know. I've seen my mom struggle all of her life and my sisters. I want more for myself."  
"And you can do it!" Michael reassured her as he played with a lock of her hair. Becoming silent, his brain made a quick mental note of the name she had mentioned moments ago—Dontrell. It was his first time hearing that particular name connected to the Detroit Reds, and he was eager to learn more about him.


	9. Law and Lust: A Crime of Passion

For several moments, Michael stared out of his living-room window at the light sparkling snowflakes. As much as he hated the stuff, he still found it beautiful. He loved how serene and peaceful the city became during snowstorms despite it making travel conditions horrendous. As Michael took a sip of his cocktail, he thought about his next move. He had located several Dontrell's in the area, but without a last name or any other identifying information, he'd have to don a disguise and hit the streets to find the one that was a member of the Detroit Reds.  
Though a few of his colleagues would often make fun of him for hiding his identity, it was of no bother to him. Wearing a disguise was one of the things that notched up his success rate. Most criminals would never speak so openly to a detective. If he were to walk into a neighborhood in his usual business casual attire, everyone would know he worked for the authorities.  
Michael believed wholeheartedly in dressing appropriately, pending various situations. When he visited the tattoo parlors, he didn't wear a disguise because he needed to show he worked for law enforcement to view their log and schedule books. He knew most employees of an establishment would never give a regular Joe blow off the street that sort of sensitive information.  
When the snow began to pick up the pace, Michael grimaced. Though tomorrow was Christmas Eve, he had planned on doing some surveillance at a few of the Detroit Red's hangout spots, but if the projected weather forecast held, he'd hold off till after Christmas. And besides, the city would be a ghost town. Hell, even gangs spent time with their families during the holidays—New Year's Eve would be a better time. More than likely, they'd be out celebrating, pimping, and drug dealing in full force.  
As a cold chill wafted up Michael's spine, he shivered and said, "good thing I decided on buying a house with a fireplace—I'm always cold."  
When he noticed the flame in the fireplace was but a mere flicker, he tossed in a few pieces of wood. "There! That should do it," he exclaimed, as he rubbed his hands together in front of the growing blaze. After warming up for a bit, he headed towards the couch but stopped short when the doorbell rang.  
After looking through the peephole, Michael opened the door promptly. "Hey, is everything alright?"  
"Yeah-yeah. I'm fine. If this is a bad time, I can just leave this with you and be on my way."  
"No. Please . . . Come in for a sec." Michael smiled, retrieving the thick brown envelope from Natise's hand. "How is it out there? It was snowing pretty hard the last time I checked. I don't want you getting stranded on the side of the road."  
"Yeah, it was. But it's now lightened up a bit. Just wet pavement and flurries. The snow isn't to pick up until the pre-dawn hours."  
As Natise walked into Michael's home, she took off her knitted cap and gloves. The ends of her hair were damp, and her full-length, black wool coat was covered in snow. "God! I can't believe how cold it is today." Her teeth chattered as she rubbed her forearms.  
"Please, allow me," Michael said politely, as he helped her out of her coat. "I don't want you getting sick—especially during Christmas."  
Natise chuckled then turned to face him. "Always the constant gentleman."  
His gaze deep and penetrating, he touched her chin and said, "always. Please make yourself at home while I hang up your coat."  
As Natise took a quick look around the living-room, she let out a hearty chuckle as she took a seat on the floor in front of the fireplace. "I love your Charlie Brown Tree!"  
Michael gave an exasperated sigh as he sat down beside her. "I like my tree."  
"I like it too!"  
"So much that you insulted it." Michael frowned. "For a single guy that lives alone—I'm trying hard at this holiday decorating thing."  
"Aww . . . I'm sorry, Michael. I was only teasing—it's a nice tree, and I really love your other holiday decorations."  
"You're forgiven." Michael gave a tight-lipped smile. "Can I get you anything?"  
When Natise noticed the orange and red layered cocktail in Michael's hand, she grabbed it and took a sip. "I'll have a glass of this! It tastes wonderful! What is it?"  
"God, you're so rude." Michael grimaced and then laughed. "It's a Tequila Sunrise. Hang on while I go and pour you a glass."  
As Michael retreated to the kitchen, Natise yelled after him, "just bring the whole damn pitcher!"  
"Not a chance!" Michael retorted. "You're driving, and it's bad weather out—the last thing I need is you getting into an accident."  
After preparing the cocktail, Michael made his way back to the living room but paused before reaching Natise, who was now barefoot and lying on her back while reading over the CSI report. As he surveyed her in silence, his heart skipped a beat. He loved how comfortable and relaxed she became when she visited his home. It was moments like these that he longed for a steady relationship, but he would quickly abandon those thoughts. "Come on, Mike! Now is not the time to get all sentimental!" His brain reprimanded.

Snapping out of his thoughts, Michael made his way over to Natise. "I'm gonna start making you pay rent!" He spat as he stood over her. "Here's your drink. I decorated it, especially for you."  
When Natise eyed the tropical umbrella with a cherry and pineapple attached, she sat upright, retrieved the drink from Michael's hand, and gushed. "Aww! How sweet of you! Thank-you."  
"You're welcome," Michael replied in a gentle tone as he sat on the floor, resting his back against the sofa. "Would you mind if we look over the report together?"  
"No, of course not. Actually, I was hoping we could. I found something intriguing during my investigation, and it's something I'm sure you'll find interesting as well."


	10. Law and Lust: A Crime of Passion

"Ok, great! And by the way, thanks again for getting the report to me within a week. Honestly, I don't know what I'd do without you. I've solved so many cases because of your quick turnarounds with the reports,"  
Michael uttered as he placed his hand atop Natise's and then gazed deep into her hazel eyes. Forever a sucker for a woman with beautiful eyes, he found hers exceptional due to their golden flecks.  
"Just doing my job . . . But thank you," Natise replied as she pinched his cheek.  
"Well, uh. Let's have a look at that report, shall we?"  
Michael gulped and then unbuttoned three buttons on his corduroy shirt—he seemed to have one in every color of the rainbow. Whenever he wasn't sporting his usual business casual wear—a white dress shirt with a black tie or suspenders; he wore black cotton pants and soft corduroy shirts—they were his favorites because they kept him warm. And last but not least were his wide-brim, black fedora, and old beat-up Florsheim loafers that he refused to wear in any other color besides black. Natise was convinced that he had been wearing the same shoes for five years straight, and she wasn't too far off the mark. Michael often went long stretches of wearing the same pair of loafers before replacing them. "The older—the better," he often thought. Since his job required a considerable amount of activity, he couldn't deal with wearing stiff and uncomfortable shoes.  
As they read over the report, Natise pointed to one of the many photos she had taken at the crime scene and said, "When I tested the DNA on Mrs. Bell's blouse, I discovered the bloodstains were heavier on the inside."  
"Meaning, she must have been naked when she shot her husband and put on her blouse afterward." Michael grimaced. "Damn! I wonder if they had just got through having sex?"  
"Well, wonder no longer! I found her coochie juice on his dick."  
Michael threw back his head and roared with laughter. "My, you have a way with words."  
"Sorry, it's the alcohol."  
"It's alright. I know what you meant. So, what else did you find of interest besides Mrs. Bell's vaginal fluids on her husband's penis?"  
"You just had to correct me, didn't you?"  
"I wouldn't be me if I didn't."  
Natise paused and took a sip of her cocktail. "I don't think she killed her husband."  
"Really?" Michael furrowed his eyebrows, moving closer beside her. "How so?" Since finding the bullet casings and skull and cross-bones necklace at the crime scene, he had been feeling similarly. Based on the information he knew thus far—he no longer believed Adassa killed her husband and was eager to hear what Natise had to say.  
Natise pointed towards a picture of a foot impression and said, "I discovered an interesting set of footprints. Though there were quite a few prints on the carpet, these were the most recent and were layered over the others—I tracked them to the porch of the house. After that, the footprints became muddled and then non-existent due to the environment—snow and rain washed them away."  
As Michael took a closer look at a picture of the footprints, he immediately thought of the man he had seen in Adassa's car, but still, he didn't want to jump to conclusions. The footprints could belong to anyone; a friend, family member, or even a maintenance man, for that matter. "Great! Now all I have to do is find a man wearing Lugz boots in size 12; that shouldn't be hard at all."  
"Yeah, you have some hard work ahead of yourself. Besides a select few, including yourself, most of the men in this town are rocking Timberlands or Lugz. "Speaking of which, don't your feet get cold in those damn loafers?"  
Michael rolled his eyes. "I also own boots, Natise!"  
"But never wear," she added.  
"I wear them!"  
"Oh, sure . . . When?" She chuckled. "Since I've known you, I've only ever seen you wearing your busted up Penny loafers."  
Michael turned his head and muttered, "your ass is always on joke time."  
"Aww. I'm sorry, Michael. I was only teasing," she uttered softly as she cupped his chin and turned his face towards hers. "Is everything alright? You usually have no problem playing the dozens—what's up?"  
Michael closed his eyes, relishing her touch. Even though she was a bit of a smart-ass, she was also gentle and caring. Whenever he showed the slightest bit of sadness or angst, she picked up on it immediately and took great interest in what was plaguing him. "I'm alright, Natise. I haven't had much sleep these past few days. Though that's not unusual, it's all starting to catch up to me."  
Absent-mindedly, Natise stroked the cute dimple in Michael's chin and said, "I should get going so you can catch some rest."  
"No. Please stay," Michael whispered and then kissed her lightly on the lips. "I'll be alright."  
Natise smiled against his lips. "As much as I'd love to, it's probably best that I make my way home before the snow picks up."  
"Oh, yeah . . . Right! I forgot all about the storm. I'll go grab your coat and then walk you to your car."  
When Michael returned with Natise's coat, he found her staring out the living-room window. "How's it looking out there?"  
"Not good. Damn it!" She hissed. "I'm gonna have a hard time driving in that shit."  
Placing Natise's coat on the chair, Michael made his way towards the window. "Well, this most certainly wasn't in the forecast this early—that's at least seven inches of snow on the ground!"  
"And it's coming down fast!" Natise sighed, turning to face him. "Can I use your shovel?"  
Michael folded his arms and looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. "Hell no! There's no way I'm letting you drive home in a dangerous snowstorm—you're staying here for the night. I have more than enough room."  
"Let me?" Natise sneered, looking Michael up and down. "I'm a grown-ass woman!"  
"And if you attempt to drive in a blizzard, you might end up being a dead grown-ass woman! Now, stop this nonsense! I have an extra bedroom—you're staying the night." Though Michael usually never told a woman what she could and couldn't do, this was a different story. He cared deeply for Natise and would never forgive himself if she got hurt.  
When Natise pushed past him, he grabbed her by the waist, swung her around to face him, and then slanted his mouth over hers. As their tongues desperately tangled with another, she placed her arms around his neck and melted against him. As the sounds of their tongues clicking mixed with the crackling of the fireplace, they became lost in each other.  
As Michael hoisted Natise off the ground, she wrapped her legs around him and said, "take me, please."  
"Only if you promise to stop fussing at me and stay the night." Michael chuckled deep. His breathing heavy and labored.  
"Yes, I promise."  
"Hold on tight," Michael instructed as he carried Natise to his bedroom.


	11. Law and Lust: A Crime of Passion

"Be right back," Michael blurted as he placed Natise on her feet.  
Natise smirked. "Don't keep me waiting too long."  
After lighting several candles, Michael stood before her and said, "Before we do this, I just want to make sure this is what you want? I know how you feel about keeping things professional and the whole 'sleeping with your co-worker thing' . . . Only this time, I don't want to merely sleep with you. . . I want to make love to you. Can I make love to you, Natise?"  
Natise's eyes widened. "Is that what you're calling it now?"  
"I don't know what else to call it," he replied genuinely, "but what I do know is that I care for you. So, once again—can I make love to you?"  
"Yes," Natise chimed as she unbuttoned and removed his shirt, "but only if you allow me to do the same."  
"Sure. Of course, you can, baby" Michael smiled and then licked his lips as he proceeded to unbutton her blue parasuco jeans. God, how he loved those jeans on her. He loved the way they hugged her curves and accentuated her lines—she was divinity in motion. And though he loved seeing her in them, at current, he wanted nothing more but to strip her out of them.  
As Michael slid her jeans down to her calves, he kissed her stomach and her thighs along the way. After helping her step out of her jeans, he placed a tender kissed on her mound, causing her to release a sultry moan. Standing to his feet, he removed his trousers, sat on the edge of the bed, and then looked her over and said, "you do the rest."  
Natise gave him a quizzical glance. "You want me to strip for you?"  
"Yes, please," he drawled softly as a demure smile graced his lips. It had been a long time since Michael made love, and he was feeling a bit nervous. Fucking was easy, but making love meant letting his guard down.  
"This is my first time stripping for an audience." She chuckled. "I need some music."  
Michael laughed and then picked up a remote, powering on his Pioneer stereo system with floor speakers. He was a music lover and often listened to his music on the highest volume, but for Natise, he'd keep it at a gentle tone. The last time they listened to music together, she punched him in the arm when he blasted it at a volume that made her heart feel as if it was going to leap out of her chest.  
When smooth jazz music began to play, Natise stood before Michael and began her seductive dance. As her body rolled, shimmied, and shook before him, he chuckled and said, "you're not half bad! You could definitely give the dancers down at the Coliseum a run for their money."  
Natise twisted her lips as she removed her red lace bra. "You go to that place?"  
"Sometime." He uttered as he dazedly watched Natise's breast spring free—she was a 'B' cup at most. And though it might sound a bit cliche, he never judged a woman on how big or small her tits and ass were. He found beauty in all shapes and sizes—each had something unique and beautiful to offer. What mattered most to him was a woman's heart. For him, a woman's physical beauty could by no means outshine the inner beauty that radiated from her heart and spirit.  
When Natise turned around and wiggled her ass, she removed her red lace thong and tossed it over her shoulder to Michael. As he inspected the whisper of a thread, he cocked his head to the side and said, "doesn't your ass get cold? It's winter!"  
Whipping around to face him, Natise shrugged her shoulders. "All right, all right! We're even! But unlike you and your beloved penny loafers, I have an excellent reason for rocking a thong in the winter."  
Michael arched a brow. "And what would that be?"  
"Panty lines! I hate them."  
As they laughed simultaneously, Michael then pulled Natise between his thighs and smacked her butt. "Mmm, now I know why your ass always looks so good in those jeans."  
Natise purred and then sat on his lap, wrapping her legs around him. "I'm glad you think so."  
Smoothing his fingers over her hair, he kissed her slow and deep. He loved the feel of her lips and their taste—cherry-flavored ChapStick—a favorite of his as well.  
His hands caressing her all over, she gripped the back of his neck as she ground hastily on his erection. "Slow down, baby . . . we've got all night," he murmured, dragging his lips down to the center of her neck. "I want to take my time and savor every inch of you."  
"Ok." Natise smiled—climbed off his lap— and then made herself comfortable on the bed. "I'm ready when you are."   
Michael licked his lips at the erotic sight of Natise lying in the middle of the bed in all her naked glory. When she opened her legs—a sexy but silent invitation to enter her garden—he immediately jumped to his feet and removed his underwear. After sheathing himself with a condom, he placed himself between her thighs. Though he wasn't inside of her yet, just the mere touch of her moist and warm pussy against his throbbing dick had him near the edge. When Michael began kissing and sucking on her earlobe, Natise ran her hands up and down his back—broad shoulders that tapered down to his narrow waist. "Oh, Michael baby . . . Shit!"  
Michael smirked and then licked her erect areolas—they were a lovely shade of russet brown, the same color as her hair. As he placed a trail of kisses from the center of her chest down to her stomach, he then caressed her inner and outer thighs. Parting her folds with his long and lean fingers, he blew lightly on her clit. "I'd like to taste you, sweetheart. Are you?" Michael paused, not wanting to offend her. He didn't give oral sex often, but when he did, he had to be sure it was safe to do so.   
Natise touched his cheek and said. "Don't worry; I'm clean."  
"So am I." He replied in a husky tone and then placed an open-mouth kiss on the moistened curls of her center.  
As Michael swept his tongue over her clit in light and slow circles, Natise chortled and ran her fingers through his slightly waved hair. "Mmm! I'm glad I stayed the night."  
"I'm glad you did as well—your coochie juice is the best I've tasted."  
"Michael! No, you didn't!"  
"Yes, I did."  
Natise grumbled. "I thought you wanted to make love to me? That description is not sexy or good for lovemaking!"  
"I am, but that's not to say that I can't tease you," he laughed. "Now, please chill and let me continue."  
As Michael licked, French kissed and fingered, Natise's wetter than the ocean pussy—her eyes rolled to the back of her head. "Mmm . . . Yes, Michael. Right there," she whimpered. "I'm almost there."  
It had been a long time since Michael made love to a woman with his tongue, and he was thoroughly enjoying every bit of it. He loved seeing Natise lose control and go wild for him. And unlike when they had sex in the past, her passionate cries were more profound—more intense. She had let her guard down as well.  
As waves of pleasure cascaded over Natise's body, she grabbed a fistful of the bed-sheet; her body jerked upwards, and then her eyes connected with Michael's. As he continued pleasuring her, he kept his gaze locked on hers—it was the sexiest thing she had ever experienced while receiving oral.  
"Mmm-hmm." Michael moaned as he quickened his pace and took her hand in his.  
Her body shaking uncontrollably, she groaned from the depths of her belly and cried out, "Oooh, Michael!"  
"Are you okay?" He giggled and then placed a kiss on her inner thigh. "That was one hell of a sound you made."  
Natise ran her thumb across his lips and smiled. "Yes, baby. I'm fine. But now, it's your turn. I want to feel you inside me."  
"Just uh—give me a moment to put on a new condom." Michael smiled sheepishly. "Pleasuring you gave me pleasure as well."  
After putting on a new condom, Michael eased himself into Natise's warmness and pressed her legs against the mattress. Moving his hips in a circular motion, he caressed her right breast with his right hand while his left hand massaged her hair.  
Natise closed her eyes and moaned as he kissed the dip of her neck.  
When the classic Quiet Storm tune—Moments in Love began to play, Michael gave a throaty laugh and said, "How perfect." The sensual slow jam was heralded by many as the perfect love-making song—starting gentle and smooth, then breaking down into a deep groove that climaxed into a rush of melodic euphoria, leading into the songs luscious cadence.  
"Go deeper, baby," Natise said silkily while running her hands through Michael's hair. "I wanna feel you throb inside of me."  
"I had every intention of doing so, sweetheart," Michael said smoothly as he draped her legs over his shoulders and gripped her butt from underneath.  
Sinking deeper into her, he then tilted her pelvis upward, stroking her long and deep with his girthy flesh. "Mmm . . . Shit! Michael!" Natise shrieked when he hit her G-spot.  
"Oooh, Natise, baby. You feel so . . . ahhh!" Michael shouted at the top of his lungs before he could finish his sentence. As his body spasmed against hers, he let out a long and slow moan—akin to a wolf's howl.  
"Are you all right?" Natise giggled as she rubbed Michael's butt, his sinewy muscles relaxing under her fingertips.  
"Oh, be quiet. Your ass was yelling right along with me," Michael retorted playfully and then placed a delicate kiss upon her lips.  
"So, are you ready for round three?"  
Michael furrowed his eyebrows. "Round three?"  
"Yes, round three. I want to make love to you as well."  
Michael flashed a lopsided grin. "Can I get a rain check? My ass is getting old—I'm kinda worn out."  
"Are you sure?" Natise pouted. "I was looking forward to making love to you."  
"You already have, baby."  
"How so?"  
"By opening yourself up to me."  
Natise blushed. "And how do you know that?"  
"Trust me, I know."  
After settling down for the night, Michael cuddled Natise in a spooning position. When she felt his erection grow against her backside, she chuckled and said, "are you sure about that rain check?"  
Michael kissed her bare shoulder. "Yes, sweetheart, I am, but that's not to say you can't surprise me in the morning."  
"Deal." She yawned.  
"Have a goodnight, Michael."  
"You too, Natise."  
As Michael listened to the soft sound of Natise's breathing, a barrage of thoughts flooded his brain. He didn't know what the future held for them, but everything in that moment felt oh so right.


	12. Law and Lust: A Crime of Passion

Michael shouted and then bolted upright. His body was covered in sweat, and his chest was heaving. When Natise said she wanted to make love to him, she meant it. He awoke to her riding his morning wood. It was the first time she was on top. The way she bounced, gyrated, and rocked her hips was impeccable. It had been a fantasy of his to be awakened in such an erotic manner, but Natise was the only woman he ever gave consent. Many of his previous hook-ups offered, but he kindly declined—partly due to the fact he was usually gone within a few hours and never fell asleep in their presence. Besides Natise, he hadn't had a woman in his bed for quite some time. Given his job's nature, he didn't feel comfortable bringing casual sex partners to his home.  
"Good morning, baby." Natise straddled Michael's lap and then cooed in his ear, "did you sleep well?"  
Michael inhaled and exhaled deeply in an attempt to catch his breath. "I did . . . So well that I didn't feel you slip the condom on me."  
"Well, you did put in some extra work last night." Natise giggled. "No wonder you were knocked out cold. I feel bad for waking you."  
"Please, don't. That was an amazing way to wake up. Thank you." Michael smiled shyly. "So, uh . . . Are you hungry?"  
"A little. But I should probably head home. I don't want to keep you from your busy schedule."  
Michael pointed towards the half-drawn blinds and laughed. "Sorry, but you're stuck with me until roads become passable."  
Hopping out of bed, Natise rushed over to the window, opened the curtain, and gasped. "How much do you think is out there?"  
Michael rubbed his eyes and then swung his legs over the bed. As he made his way towards the window, he ran his hands through his messy bed hair. Wrapping his arms around Natise, he took one look out the window and said, "I hope you don't mind spending the night again."  
"Damn it!" Natise hissed.  
"Aww, now come on! Spending another night with me wouldn't be all that bad."  
Turning around to face him, Natise sighed and said, "no, it wouldn't be, but I have plans at my mom's house for Christmas."  
"Well, hopefully, the roads will clear up by morning. I wouldn't want you to miss out on spending Christmas with your family."  
"Thanks, but what about you? Do you have any plans for Christmas?"  
"Work," Michael said flatly. "I'm gonna read through your report and make preparations to do some undercover surveillance at the Detroit Red's hangout spots."  
"Please be careful."  
"Natise, why are you so worried about me investigating this case?"  
"Because I don't want you getting hurt or worse . . . Killed."  
Michael placed his hands on either side of Natise's face, stroking the space between her ears and jaw. "Thank you for your concern, but I'll be alright. I've investigated gangs before, and I know all about the Detroit Reds. I'll be careful."  
Natise sighed. "Well, can you at least take a partner with you during your surveillance?"  
"Now, Natise—you know I work alone."  
"And the Detroit Red's are a gang of 50. If they catch you lurking in their hood, I don't want them to ambush you like they did that detective five years ago."  
Michael grimaced. "Yeah, I remember that. Poor guy was shot at close range with a sawed-off shotgun."  
"Ok, so you know what they're capable of!"  
"Yes, I do. I'm not dumb, Natise. But unlike Detective Savoy, he dropped the ball a lot. He didn't wear a disguise and rolled up to their spot in his unmarked Crown Victoria. Every drug dealer knows an undercover cop car when they see one—that car screams, 'look at me. I'm a detective!' "  
"So, you just have it all figured out, huh?"  
"No, I don't. But I am good at my job. Trust me . . . Everything will be fine. Now, what would you like for breakfast?" Michael smiled and kissed the tip of her nose.  
"Don't try to change the subject."  
"Natise, baby, please. I don't want to discuss this any further."  
Natise knew it was of no use arguing with him, so she huffed and said, "so, who's cooking? You or me?"  
"Me."  
"You know how to burn in the kitchen?"  
Michael laughed. "I'm no world cuisine chef, but I know how to do a little somethin' somethin."

***  
Later that night, Michael cuddled Natise in front of the fireplace as she lay back against him. There was no talk of the case or their careers—only companionable silence. When Michael attempted to do some work on his laptop earlier in the day, Natise threatened to drive home in the snow. For once, she wanted him to relax and enjoy the holidays. Though it took some coaxing, Michael finally relented and began to relax. Most of the day, they watched old movies, discussed non-work related topics, and made earth-shattering love.  
As they watched the flickering flames in the fireplace, Christmas music played softly in the background. "Is it warm enough for you?" Michael said quietly as he played with a lock of her hair. He loved stretching her coils to their maximum length—releasing them—and then watch them spring back to their original form.  
"Yes, Michael. I'm warm. How about you?"  
"I'm good, baby. I'm good." He smiled lazily. "You know, this is the most I've relaxed in years."  
"And it's not so bad, right?"  
Michael placed a kiss atop her hair and murmured, "it's perfect."  
"I'm glad to hear that."  
"According to the weather forecast, roads will become passable tomorrow by mid-morning," Michael uttered with a hint of sadness to his voice. He enjoyed spending time with Natise and would miss her when it was time for her to go home.  
Recognizing the melancholy in his voice, Natise turned to face him and said, "Hey! Why don't you come over for Christmas dinner at my mom's house?"  
"Oh, gee . . . I don't know. Your mom might have a lot of questions if you just stroll up with some random dude."  
"You're not some random dude; you're my friend. Come on and stop being a stick in the mud! No one should spend Christmas alone."  
"I have work to do, Natise."  
"Michael, if you don't bring yo workaholic ass on—it's Christmas, for goodness' sake!"  
"Alright, alright! I'll go. But only because you asked so nicely."  
"Really?" Natise raised her eyebrows in surprise. "What's going on? You feeling alright?"  
"I'm fine, Natise. And listen, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have responded that way. It's very nice of you to invite me . . . it's just." Michael closed his eyes and sighed, unable to finish his sentence. The truth of the matter was that in addition to him being a workaholic, he was scared of where things were headed with Natise. He didn't want his worse nightmare coming true.  
"It's alright, sweetie," natise cooed. "I don't want you to do anything you don't want to."  
"No, no, please. I'd love to be your guest." Michael smiled. "You're right—I need to relax more. Another day off could do me some good."  
"Great!" Natise beamed. "I'll tell my mom to set an extra place at the table."


	13. Law and Lust: A Crime of Passion

"Man, I just got off desk duty, and you got me out here doing surveillance on Christmas!" Detective Bennett groaned. "And in a silly disguise at that."  
Michael growled from behind his binoculars. "Focus, Bennett! I need you to keep watch of our surroundings . . . That is—unless you wanna get shot-up on the happiest day of the year?"  
"Of course not! And end up like Detective Savoy? No thanks! I'm trying to make it home to my family."  
"And you will! We'll wrap this up in about 30 minutes," Michael replied matter of factly, as he kept watch on a small run-down house. "I want to search the garbage near and outside the house for any possible evidence."  
"If Sergeant Grayson knew we were out here, he'd be livid. You know he doesn't want us taking on the Detroit Reds. And by the way, don't you work solo?"  
"Yes, I do. But for this—I got a tip that I shouldn't go it alone."  
"Natise, huh?"  
"What?" Michael replied sharply as a puzzled expression appeared on his face.  
Detective Bennett chuckled. "You heard me. Agent Mckee is worried about your ass. Anytime a man changes up, it's usually for a woman. I know you two are sweet on each other. You're the only detective that get's their reports hand-delivered. When she works on any other detective's case, it gets delivered by the agency to the property room."  
Michael simpered. "Damn! It's that obvious, huh?"  
"Ole' girl got your nose so wide open a truck could drive through it." Detective Bennett bellowed. "So y'all knocking boots or what?"  
"You're so fucking nosey!"  
"So, I'll take that as a yes."  
"Take it however you want."  
"Be Nice, Jackson—it is Christmas after all."  
"Man, just shut up and keep your eyes peeled."  
During Michael and Detective Bennett's conversation, Michael never took his eyes off the old run-down house—one of the Detroit Reds' new drug peddling spots. After Natise headed home earlier that morning, Michael received a tip from his "Crime Stoppers" hotline.  
Despite his plans to take off work, he couldn't blow off a substantial lead. An anonymous caller reported a flurry of suspicious activity happening on Tacoma Street. It was reported that people were seen coming and going at all hours of the night. Albeit, a new drug house popping up near 8-mile road wasn't a surprise. Still, the anonymous caller also reported having seen the Detroit Reds transporting an assortment of gun bags into the house via several black SUVs.  
Concluding that the caller was either knowledgeable in weaponry or had provided inside information about the Detroit Red's, he directed the hotline operator to trace the calls.  
When he received the caller's information, it was a curveball he didn't see coming.  
After several minutes of being parked down the street, Michael started the truck's engine and pulled up closer to the house. His disguise for the surveillance was to pose as a garbage truck driver. Sure, the guise was not very low-key, but that was a part of his grand idea. There was no way the Detroit Red's would find a big ass dump truck questionable. An unmarked vehicle with two regularly dressed guys inside would be more suspicious than city workers.  
"Well, I'll be dammed," Michael muttered when he saw a Red, 1995 Venturi pull into the driveway of the house.  
"What's up?" Detective Bennett said, turning his attention towards Michael. "Do we need to make a move?"  
"Cover me," Michael stated hastily as he hopped out of the truck. "I'll be right back."  
Detective Bennett grumbled. "Shit! His ass better not do nothing stupid."  
As Michael walked closer to the house, he picked up trash along the way and tossed it into a trash bag. He didn't want anyone to grow suspicious, so he had to be sure to play his role.  
When Michael paused for several minutes while checking the scene, Detective Bennett began to follow him. "Good thinking," Michael said quietly to himself and then waved his hand at the garbage truck. As much as Detective Bennett got on Michael's nerves, he knew he was a smart detective, but unlike him, he made costly mistakes—which is how he ended up on desk duty. After several months of hooking up with a gorgeous prostitute, he became too close, caught feelings, and shared confidential information with her in which she relayed to her pimp. And as a result, a case he had been working on became compromised and almost cost him his job.  
As Michael continued to collect trash, his eyes zeroed in on the man and woman who had stepped out of the candy-apple red sports car. The woman he identified immediately—how could he not? He'd recognized that graceful stride and beautiful crown of hair anywhere.  
As for her male companion, Michael eyed his size twelve boots and suspected it was the man that killed her husband. The same man that sat behind the wheel of her car in the parking lot of Trinosophes Cafe. But still, he wasn't sure. As Natise said, half the men in Detroit were either wearing Lugz or Timberlands—he needed more identifying information.  
"Hurry the fuck up! Time is money!" The man growled when the woman bent down to pick up something off the ground.  
"Sorry. I'm coming," she answered immediately. "I dropped my cell phone."  
When Adassa stood up straight, she stopped dead in her tracks when she saw a man dressed in orange coveralls holding a big trash bag—his dark brown hair tucked under a green baseball cap that covered his eyes.  
"No, that can't be him?" She thought silently, shook her head sideways, and then blinked. Though she never made eye contact with him, she could tell from his chiseled jaw and dimpled chin—it had to be the suave detective she loathed but also prayed would save her.  
When Dontrell noticed Adassa hadn't moved a muscle, he narrowed his eyes and looked back and forth between her and Michael. Stalking angrily towards her, he snatched her by the arm and ushered her inside the house.

***  
After completing his stakeout, Michael returned to the police department and changed back into his typical attire. Asides from his gut feeling and a man wearing size twelve Lugz, he hadn't found any concrete evidence that could aid him in solving the case.  
Feeling mentally and physically exhausted, he made his way home. He had only a few hours to do some work, catch a nap, and prepare for dinner at Natise's family home later that evening. As Michael turned onto the highway, he noticed a black SUV following him at a far distance. Every time he switched lanes, slowed down, or sped up, so would the SUV.   
In the pit of Michael's stomach, he knew the driver wasn't just some random asshole on the road. Considering the information he received about the Detroit Red's—his being tailed by a black SUV couldn't be a mere coincidence.  
As Michael slowed down his car's speed, he looked through his rearview mirror in an attempt to get a clear description of the driver, but it was useless—he was too far away. So instead, he made a mental note of the driver's license plate number. He wished he could pull the driver over, but without probable cause, he had no legal right to do so. The driver never broke the speed limit, and the vehicle was intact—no auto body damage.  
When Michael exited the highway, the SUV proceeded to follow him but eventually continued on its way when he turned into the parking lot of a drug store. Even if he hadn't stopped, he knew it wasn't a good idea to head home. The whole ordeal pissed him off dearly because there wasn't much he could do. And though he had Reasonable Suspicion, he had no evidence the driver had committed a crime—he didn't even know what he looked like.  
After picking up a few things from the store, Michael finally made his way home. From the corner of his eye, he spotted two Black SUVs—one crossing the street behind him, and the other turning the corner to his right. He still had the feeling he was being followed but chopped it up to his overly cautious nature, which wasn't a bad thing—it kept him safe. "Come on, Michael! Get your shit together," he scolded himself. "A lot of people drive black SUVs—they're not exclusive."  
Michael exhaled and inhaled deeply, then suddenly, his phone rang. "Hey, Michael, would you mind bringing over a pitcher of that delicious Tequila Sunrise you made for me? It would pair wonderfully with tonight's dessert."  
Michael smirked. "Sure, I can do that. But what will I get in return?"  
"Uh . . . A thank-you. What else would you get?"  
"You."  
"Me?" Natise snorted. "What do you mean—me? Could you be a little more specific?"  
"I meant exactly what I said. And yes, I could, but where's the fun in that?" Michael laughed and then licked his lips. "I'll let you know after dinner."  
Natise twisted her lips and huffed. "And you talk about me always being on joke time."  
"What I want isn't a joke, Natise. I'll see you in a few."  
"Whatever. I have to go. I'm helping my mom prepare for tonight. Dinner starts at 7 pm—don't be late," Natise blurted and then hung up the phone.  
For the remainder of his drive home, Michael's thoughts shifted from the black SUV to Natise. Her touch, her smell, the taste of her moist and plump lips permeated his thoughts.  
Work had become the last thing on his mind.


	14. Law and Lust: A Crime of Passion

Christmas Night

"He's cute." Natise's mother, Roberta, whispered as she peered at Michael from behind the dining-room wall. "Maybe it's time you upped his status to boyfriend . . . Hell, fiancé even."  
Natise slapped her mother's leg under the table. "Stop it, Mother. He might hear you!"  
"So? Friends can become lovers."  
"Mother, please. Not now."  
"All right. I'll let it go, but you'd be insane to let a hunk of a man like that get away. He has a good job and is insanely gorgeous. He's also great with kids. Your little niece and nephew have been showing him their Lego collection for the past hour, and he doesn't seem to be annoyed."  
Natise smiled. "Tonight has been the most he's been at ease. He's a workaholic. He doesn't take much time out for himself. It's been nice seeing him relax these past few days."  
Roberta raised an eyebrow and took a sip of the Tequila Sunrise Michael bought over for dinner. "These past few days, huh? Exactly how much time have y'all been spending together?"  
Natise chuckled nervously and stood up from the table. "I think I heard Michael call my name . . . Let me see what he wants. Be right back."  
Though Michael hadn't really called Natise's name, she needed an escape. She didn't feel like answering her mother's question because she knew it would only prompt her to keep the conversation going.  
"Yeah. Uh-huh, sure." Roberta said wryly. "He's fine and all, but you better not bring no babies around here until he makes you Mrs. Detective Jackson."  
Natise screeched. "Mother, please! Could you not?"  
"Ok—I will for now. But you can't wriggle yourself out of this one. When we get a chance to talk more privately, I wanna hear all about your past few days with Detective Jackson."  
Natise sighed and then made her way to the living-room. "I hope they aren't getting on your nerves too much." She simpered when she saw her niece and nephew bombard Michael with several toys.  
"No! We've been having a blast." Michael chuckled as he rolled a car Lego across the floor. "Wanna race Lego's with us?"  
"Sure, but only if I get to be on your team."  
Taking Natise by the hand, he smiled softly and said, "of course, I'd have it no other way. We make a great team."  
Natise's niece beamed. "Aunty Teece! Uncle Michael showed us his badge! He's a detective! Just like Inspector Gadget!"  
Natise furrowed her eyebrows. "Uncle Michael? He's not your unc--"  
"Whoops, time for bed, sweeties!" Natise's sister, Juanita, interjected and then swooped her son and daughter into her arms.  
"See, this is why I don't bring friends over." Natise groaned while rolling her eyes at her sister. "Did you tell them to call him that?"  
"Girl, you know kids say anything," she chuckled and then winked. "Have a good night. And I do mean, have a good night—if you catch my drift?"  
As Juanita carried the adorable toddlers out of the room, they shouted gleefully, "Goodnight, Uncle Michael! Goodnight, Aunty Teece!"  
"Goodnight!" Michael and Natise smiled and waved in return.  
"Aunty Teece." Michael giggled. "That's cute. Can I call you that as well?"  
"Only if I get to call you Inspector Gadget," she retorted.  
"It would be an honor to be called Inspector Gadget! That's one of my favorite cartoons!" Michael hummed and sang the cartoon theme song, mimicking the song's instrumentation simultaneously—complete with sound effects. "Inspector Gadget, dun na na na, Whoo-hoo! Dun Na na na, Inspector Gadget. Bah bah. Go Gadget, go!"  
Natise twisted her lips and asked, "how much Tequila Sunrise did you drink tonight?"  
"I only had one drink!" he chuckled and then rose to his feet.  
"Yeah, one too many," Natise muttered. "But anyway, don't you dare call me Teece. I only allow the kids to call me that."  
"Natise, please relax. I was only teasing," he said tenderly, placing a quick kiss on her cheek. "Would you mind going outside with me for a second? I need a smoke."  
After putting on their coats and venturing outside, Natise walked with Michael to his car. It was freezing, but neither seemed to mind. All evening they had been stealing glances at one another. While they both enjoyed being festive and celebrating Christmas with Natise's family, The night had been a constant stream of guests, and they were both in dire need of some alone time with one another. Natise had some questions for Michael, and he had some for her as well.  
"Sorry, I forgot my smokes in the glove compartment," Michael said while backing Natise against the door of the car.  
"And usually, I'd have some, but I'm all out." She sighed. "I've been smoking a bit more than usual."  
"I hear you; it's been a rough week. These past few days have been the most rest I've gotten in months." Michael stroked either side of Natise's face and kissed her softly on the lips. "Mmm . . . "I've been waiting to do that all night."  
"And I've been waiting for it as well." Natise closed her eyes and smiled. "It's been a long night. But all in all, I hope you enjoyed yourself."  
"I had a great time, Natise. Your family is so sweet. Thanks for inviting me over."  
"No problem. I'm happy you could join us. Also, you'll have to excuse my family's behavior. I don't introduce my male friends to them often, and their brains jumped to conclusions . . . God! I can't believe my little niece and nephew called you Uncle Michael."  
"Natise—it's fine. And um, I'm completely ok with your family jumping to conclusions." Michael flashed a sheepish grin. "Well, uh. Let's take that smoke and then head back inside. Hold on while I grab a pack."  
After retrieving a small bag from the backseat of his car, Michael passed it to Natise. "What's this?" She uttered in surprise at the shiny red and green bag adorned with a gold bow.  
"Merry Christmas."  
"Oh, Michael. You didn't have to get me anything."  
"It's not anything big. And I'll be honest . . . It's from the drug store. It's the least I could do for the dinner invitation."  
Natise's eyes lit up when she opened the bag. Inside was a teddy bear dressed as Santa Claus, a Christmas card, and a small poinsettia plant.  
"It doesn't matter where it came from. It's the thought that counts," Natise gushed and wrapped her arms around the back of Michael's neck. "Wow! This is so very sweet of you. Thank-you."  
"You're welcome," Michael said while stroking her back. Though he wished he could have gotten her a gift from somewhere other than the drugstore, he was happy it made her smile and that she seemed genuinely delighted.  
"Michael, can I ask you something?"  
"Sure, baby. Go ahead."  
"What did you mean by what you said earlier . . . About you wanting me?"  
"I meant exactly what I said. Please stay with me tonight?" He spoke silkily and then chuckled. "I'd also like to take you out on a real date."  
"Don't you have a surveillance detail you're planning?"  
"I did it this morning, and besides, I thought you wanted me to relax more?"  
"I should have known you couldn't sit still for the entire day," Natise muttered, "and I do. It's just—I don't want to come between you and your work."  
"You won't," he murmured and then kissed her neck. "Please stay with me tonight . . . I need you."  
The contrast between Michael's lips and the cold night air caused Natise to shiver. Though it was ten degrees below zero, her body was burning up. "Mmm." She closed her eyes and whimpered, her fingers gently twisting the nape of his hair.  
Michael chuckled into the crook of her neck. "That's a yes, I presume?"  
Just before Natise could answer, gunshots rang out. "Get down!" Michael shouted and pushed her to the ground, then shielding her with his entire body. "Don't move!"  
Pulling his gun out of its hip holster, tucked inside of the waistband of his pants—he shot at a black SUV as it sped down the street.  
"Michael!" Natise cried. "Please be careful!"  
After looking around them in every direction, Michael helped Natise to her feet and then ushered her inside the house and into the hallway—far away from the front door and windows. "Are you all right?" He said quickly as he cradled her face, looking her over for any injuries.  
Natise stuttered. "Yes, I'm fine. Are you ok?"  
"Yeah-yeah, I'm fine." He replied, making his way towards the door. "Call the cops and tell them what happened. I'll return as soon as I can."  
Natise grabbed him by the arm. "Michael, please! Don't go," she wailed.  
"Natise, I'm sorry, but I have to go. If I hurry, I might be able to catch the assailant," Michael rattled off, "tell your family to stay away from the windows—and please stay low when you answer the door for the cops."  
When Michael saw a few tears fall from Natise's eyes, he wiped them away with his thumb. He knew that she was well aware of the dangers of his job, and it was another reason why he was conflicted. Despite his fears, he wanted to see where things were headed between them. He was a mixed bag of emotions. In a manner of a few seconds, he had gone from being sad to angry. If and when he found the person who shot at them, there would be hell to pay—now, it was personal.  
As Michael continued to wipe away Natise's tears, she pulled away from him and said, "just go. I can't expect you not to do your job."  
Michael's eyes began to fill with tears of his own. His heart was aching, but she was right. As Michael twisted the knob of the door, he turned around and took one last look at Natise, not knowing if he'd ever see her again.


	15. Law and Lust: A Crime of Passion

"Please, God, don't let them be dead," Adassa said shakily, rocking back and forths. "I gotta get out of here!"  
As panic swept over Adassa's body, she unbuckled her seatbelt and unlocked the door. When she tried to jump out of the moving SUV, Dontrell grabbed her forcibly by the arm. "What the hell is wrong with you? Are you fucking crazy?"  
Adassa snapped back. "You just shot at the detective investigating me! Why would you do that? What if you hurt them? What if they're dead?"  
"Serves him right." Dontrell laughed. "As for the woman, I don't know who the fuck she is, so what do I care?"  
"That detective hasn't done anything to you!"  
"I saw the way you were looking at him back at the spot! Fuck him!"  
"What are you talking about?" Adassa lied. She already brought enough trouble upon herself and didn't want to make matters worse. In hindsight, she regretted trying to jump out of the SUV, but her adrenaline was at an all-time high, and she had acted on impulse.  
"You must think I'm stupid?" Dontrell yelled and then pointed his gun towards her. "I should fucking kill you right now!"  
"Dontrell, please!" Adassa cried. "Don't do this."  
Pulling over on the side of the road, Dontrell lowered his gun and then kissed her deeply. He was madly infatuated with her, and no other woman had fucked him the way that she did. It was almost as if she had a spell over him. If he couldn't have her, then no man could—including her husband. He was exceedingly jealous of him. He often thought, "what did Richard have that he didn't?"  
In comparison, he was also successful, good-looking, and rich. The only thing that set them apart was their professions. Richard was a traditional businessman, and Dontrell was a professional drug dealer with a net worth of 1.2 billion dollars. He wasn't a mere member of the Detroit Reds—he was the leader, and only his inner circle knew his official title.  
When Dontrell first met Adassa, he initially told her he was a successful banker. He never told any woman his line of business except for when he recruited prostitutes for his gang—and even then, he posed as a regular pimp. But after a few months into their affair, he eventually told her the truth. She was the total package, and he needed a good woman by his side—a ride or die chick, as some would call it. But for Adassa to be the Bonnie to his Clyde, he had to be completely honest with her. He wanted her in on the business with him, but for that to happen, he had to get rid of her husband and any other man that could come between them.  
"I don't want to kill you, Adassa. I don't. But if you try some dumb shit like that again, you won't have to worry about going to jail," he said in a calm but menacing tone. "Now, come on! Let's get out of here."  
After exiting the vehicle, Dontrell removed a red gas can from the trunk. He could hear the faint sound of helicopters in the distance and knew it was the authorities searching for the SUV—he had to get rid of it and everything inside.

***  
As Michael sped down the street, he stayed in communication with the cops. Though he had gotten a late start on pursuing the SUV, he still had to try to catch the assailant. For sure, it was the same SUV that had been tailing him earlier in the day.  
"Fuck! How did you slip Jackson? How did you slip?"   
Michael knew the answer to the question and became angry—he had no one to blame but himself. Had he not become oblivious to his surroundings, he would have been aware that the assailant not only followed him home but to Natise's family home as well.  
As Michael continued flying down the street at 80 miles per hour, he slammed on the breaks when he saw a colossal inferno—a black SUV engulfed in flames. "Shit!" He let out a heavy sigh and then hopped out of his car with his .40 caliber Heckler & Koch semi-automatic pistol in a raised position. No one appeared to be in the vehicle and surrounding area, but he had to be safe. He already let his guard down once and wouldn't allow it to happen again.  
As Michael kept a close watch on his surroundings and the fiery blaze, he reached into his coat pocket and retrieved his walkie talkie. "829, Dispatch, do you read?" He said loud and clear in a calm and collected voice.  
"829, go ahead," a woman's voice replied instantaneously, as several tones and beep sounds blared in the background from the emergency indicator system.  
"Code 10-13. Send the nearest Fire and EMS unit to the corner of St. Antoine and Macomb Street near Chrysler Drive. Abandoned vehicle, the assailant is nowhere to be found. Police officers are in pursuit."  
"829, 10-4; All units, copy 10-13, available units check the area of St. Antoine and Macomb Street near Chrysler Drive. Abandoned vehicle, no suspects or citizens."   
Within a matter of seconds, several police cars and fire trucks arrived at the scene. After the SUV was extinguished, Michael began inspecting the vehicle. And to his surprise, only the exterior was burned—the interior was fully intact.  
Michael furrowed his eyebrows. "What the hell is going on?" Inside the vehicle's trunk was a Glock 18—the same type of gun used to kill Adassa's husband. Michael knew it couldn't be a mere coincidence. Whoever killed Adassa's husband was also trying to kill him as well.  
"Someone hurry and get CSI down here asap!" Michael yelled to a group of cops as he donned a pair of gloves and inspected the rest of the trunk's contents.  
"No need to yell, Detective Jackson, I'm already here," Natise chimed behind him.  
"Natise! What are you doing here?" He said in a state of confusion. "I thought I told you to stay away from the door and to wait for the police?"  
"I did, but I also got a call to investigate this crime scene. I have a job to do as well, remember?"  
Though Natise was still on edge from being shot at and concerned about Michael's safety—she knew she had to toughen up and carry out her duties.  
"I know. I just wasn't expecting the department to send you." Michael sighed, shaking his head sideways.  
"You say that like it's a bad thing."  
"Forgive me. I didn't mean any harm, but you know what I meant. They could have sent any of the other dozens of CSI's. But um, are you all right? How is your family?"  
Natise nodded and replied, "yes, Michael, I'm alright, and my family is fine. My mom and sister were surprised when I told them there were gunshots in the area. They were relaxing in the basement turned bar—and were playing music on full blast. As for my niece and nephew, they were fast asleep in the corner bedroom located at the back of the house; they didn't hear the shots either."  
"Did you tell them what happened? That we were shot at?"  
"No. I didn't. My mom already worries about me enough as is; I didn't want to ruin her Christmas and cause her any extra stress."  
"Did you tell the cops everything?"  
"Yes, I did. And while I was doing so, I got a page to come down here." She chuckled sarcastically. "We can't even get a day off work for Christmas."  
Michael hunched his shoulders and simpered. "Well, at least we were having a lovely time until all hell broke loose."  
"That's true." Natise drew in a deep breath and then exhaled slowly—The heat from her mouth mixing with the cold night air produced a cloud of smoke. "Well, I guess I should get started. I'm not trying to be out here all night; it's cold."  
"I'll wait for you."  
"That won't be necessary, Detective Jackson."  
"Agent McKee, please. My nerves are already on edge. I want to make sure you're safe."  
Natise smiled. She appreciated that he remembered her wishes about keeping things professional at work. "There are at least ten cops out here. I think I'll be alright."  
When no one was looking, Michael touched her cheek and gazed at her with pleading eyes. In a low tone, he uttered, "we have some things to discuss."


	16. Law and Lust: A Crime of Passion

Later that night, Michael followed Natise home. Despite her telling him she'd be ok, he wouldn't hear of it. It was late out, and the assailant was still roaming the streets. Though he knew he couldn't be with her 24/7, he didn't want to take any chances—least not for the remainder of the night. He'd have to put in some protective measures for her safety. Asides from that, they needed to talk. He didn't know exactly what he was going to say, but he wanted to tell her what was on his mind and in his heart.  
"God, I feel so much better," Michael exclaimed, taking Natise into his arms. "Thanks for putting my mind at ease."  
"I'm sorry for giving you such a hard time." Natise expressed tenderly, kissing him on the cheek.  
"No problem. I just wanted to make sure you got home safely—speaking of which, I'm going to have a few cops watch your place for the next few days if that's alright with you?"  
"Yes, Michael, that's fine," she said without putting up a fuss. Just as she worried about him, she knew he worried about her as well. "But um, what about you? Who will protect you? It's pretty obvious that the person who shot at us is the same person that killed Richard Bell."  
Michael sighed and then pinched his eyes. "I'm sorry, Natise. If it weren't for me, we wouldn't have been shot at."  
"What are you talking about?"  
"I was being followed by the assailant. I let my guard down," Michael uttered softly, tears filling his eyes. "I'm so sorry. You could have been killed because of me."  
"Michael, baby," she cooed, wrapping her arms around him, "please, don't cry."  
Michael pulled out of her grasp and took her hands in his. As he gazed into her eyes, his lips began to tremble. "My worst nightmare almost came true. Someone I care for deeply could have been killed . . . I have feelings for you, Natise."  
"I have feelings for you too." She smiled. "And don't be so hard on yourself. It's not your fault there are scumbags in the world."  
"This is hard. I love spending time with you. I want to take you out on a real date. I wish we could have started another way, but I never wanted to become close to anyone due to my job—due to my deepest fears. Every day I hit the streets, not knowing whether I'll be killed or not."  
Natise touched his cheek. She had never seen him cry beside the few tears that welled up in his eyes earlier at her mother's house. "That's understandable but are you not supposed to have a life because of your job?"  
"I don't know . . . I really don't know. When I thought it might be possible, all this shit happens. And though I have my fears, I've always been confident in my abilities to protect myself and others. I've always prided myself on being a good detective—the best even. But after all that's happened today, I'm not so sure."  
Natise flashed him a sympathetic smile. "After you solve this case, we'll go out on a proper date. But for now, I need you to shake those negative feelings—you're an amazing detective. And I'm not going to lie; I'm still worried about your safety. The Detroit Red's are dangerous, but I have full confidence in you. I mean, take tonight for example. Due to your keen senses, you saw the assailant early and got us out of harm's way. Never doubt yourself."  
Michael pulled Natise into his arms and kissed her on the lips. Her words meant a lot to him and restored his beliefs in his abilities. "Thank-you, Natise. I needed that boost of encouragement," he replied, raking his hand through his hair. "Well, uh . . . I should get going now."  
"You're welcome," Natise replied earnestly as a puzzled expression replaced her smile, "but I thought you wanted to stay with me tonight?"  
"I did."  
"So, you no longer want to?" She frowned.  
"Of course, I still want to, but today has been a long day—you should get some rest."  
"And so should you." She winked and then led him to her bedroom. "We can get some shut-eye together."

***  
The following morning, Michael awoke in Natise's arms. It was his first time falling asleep in a lover's embrace, and he felt comfortable in hers. The feel of her warm breast pressed against his back—and the soft tickle of her breath on the back of his neck provided him with contentment he had never felt.  
When Natise noticed his breathing had changed, she stroked his hair and kissed the nape of his neck. "Good morning." She yawned. "Did you sleep well?"  
"Good morning," he murmured as he stroked her arm that was slung over him. "Considering what we went through last night, I got a decent night's rest. Maybe I should stay the night more often."  
"Will you be paying rent?" Natise chuckled.  
"No, I won't be doing that, but I have another way of earning my keep." He sniffed and then rolled over on his back.  
"So, what do you have in mind?"  
Michael bit down on his lower lip. "A repeat of last night with a little somethin' somethin' extra."  
"Mmm." Natise purred. "Can I get a sample before I commit?"  
Michael stroked her plump lips and said, "of course, it'd be my pleasure. But first, it requires a change of location."  
When Michael hopped out of bed, Natise narrowed her eyes at him. "Where?"  
"Follow me." He winked, extending his hand towards her. "I think you'll love the place I have in mind."

***  
As hot water spray over their bodies, Michael held Natise against the wall—her legs locked around his waist as he pumped her slow and deep. "How does it feel?" He groaned, sucking on her earlobe.  
"It feels incredible." She moaned. "Feel free to stay the night anytime."  
As Michael increased the tempo of his pumps, Natise gripped his ass. No man's stroke game came close to his, and he moved his hips as if he were a professional dancer.  
Her orgasm near, Natise placed her head on Michael's shoulder. "Yes, baby. . . Oooh! Shit." She sobbed. "I'm cumming."  
The sound of Natise's sultry moans and cries made it hard for him to hold out any longer. As Michael's body began to shudder, so did Natise's—climaxing simultaneously with his lover was a rare occurrence.  
Natise placed her hands on either side of Michael's face, kissing him deeply. "I've never fucked in the shower before." She chuckled. "Feel free to spend the night anytime you want. That was amazing."  
Michael kissed her collarbone and smirked. "Deal. I'll be holding you to that."  
After getting dressed for the day, Michael and Natise sat at the kitchen table. Since Michael prepared breakfast when she spent the night at his place, she felt compelled to do the same. And despite him not being a big eater, he gobbled down the food she prepared—boiled eggs, turkey sausage, and whole-wheat toast with a light spread of strawberry preserves. She had also prepared a big pot of coffee—her preferred beverage, but Michael chose to make himself a cup of tea instead.  
"So, what are your plans for the day?" Natise chimed, taking a small sip of her coffee. "I should have the forensics completed on that burning SUV and Glock by later tonight—tomorrow afternoon at the latest."  
"Thanks. The faster we can match the fingerprints with those found at the Bells home, the better. I need to gather as much evidence as I can to support a successful prosecution. But to answer your question, I have a lot of paperwork to fill out down at the station, and in the next day or so, I'll be visiting Mrs. Bell—I have a few questions to ask her. I've pretty much concluded that the killer of Richard Bell is a member of the Detroit Red's."  
Natise stood up from her chair and crossed over to Michael. "Please be careful," she replied as a worried look appeared on her face.  
"Yes, sweetheart, I will," he uttered softly and pulled her onto his lap. "By the way, officers Rodríguez and Harrison will be watching your residence for the next few days—I texted them a few moments ago, and they just replied. But still, I need you to be aware of your surroundings. Their shift starts at midnight and ends at 10 am. Please adhere to those times when you leave and return home."  
"So, what does Sergeant Grayson think of all this? You know he doesn't want the department taking on the Detroit Red's—or so I've heard."  
"I'mma just have to take my chance on this one. If he suspends me, he suspends me. And besides, I'm not taking on the entire gang—I'm just trying to capture the murderer of Richard Bell, who also happens to be the same scum that shot at us."


	17. Law and Lust: A Crime of Passion

Adassa hurriedly tossed a few clothes, undergarments, and essential items into a small suitcase. With no one else to turn to, she decided to run away. She had no interest in living a life of crime with Dontrell and was afraid of him. Moreover, she worried that once Detective Jackson completed his investigation, she would be formally charged with murdering her husband.  
Either way, she was fucked, so she decided to book a one-way ticket to Canada. With her husband's funeral out of the way and Dontrell visiting his mother in Atlanta, she felt the time was now or never. She had a decent amount of money saved and would hire a lawyer. Though she knew Michael would look for her once he discovered she was nowhere to be found, she would at least have a fighting chance to clear her name.  
The first and last time she mentioned hiring a lawyer, Dontrell became angry, told her that he didn't trust lawyers, and then threatened to kill her if she spoke to anyone that worked for the legal system. And although she knew running away wouldn't solve her problems, she would at least be able to obtain legal help once she was far away from Dontrell. If she stayed with him—all she had was a flimsy alibi.  
As soon as Adassa finished packing, she hurried towards the door. Even though Dontrell was miles away, she was still fearful that he could pop up at any time—which he told her. Just before he left for Atlanta, he told her not to get any silly ideas and that she never knew when or where he would show up.  
After Adassa checked to make sure she had her phone, wallet, and passport—she opened the door. "Detective Jackson!" She gasped. "What are you doing here?"  
"Oh, I was just in the neighborhood," he chuckled. "May I come in? I have a few questions to ask you."  
"No. I already told you. I will not be speaking to you without the presence of my lawyer."  
"Well, call him up and invite him over." He simpered. "Listen, let me level with you for a minute. I know you're the anonymous caller that left me that tip—I'm just trying to find the dirt-bag that killed your husband."  
Adassa blinked, as a bewildered expression, crossed her face. "Is this a trick?"  
Michael sighed. "No, it's not a trick. Please let me in so we can talk."  
"Ok," Adassa said reluctantly and opened the door. Her nerves were wrecked, and she didn't take Dontrell's warning lightly. God forbid he return early and find her talking to Detective Jackson or running out on him—for sure, there would be hell to pay or worse—death. "Can we make this quick? I have some important matters to attend."  
Eyeing her suitcase, Michael smiled and said, "I hope you're planning to go somewhere nice."  
"I'm not going anywhere," Adassa stammered.  
"Mrs. Bell, I'm a detective. There's not much that gets past me. Come on, the sooner we talk, the sooner I can protect you."  
After Adassa finally let Michael inside, she led him to the dining room. "You have a lovely home, Mrs. Bell," Michael chimed as he took a seat at the expansive glass table.  
"Thanks. Richard put a lot of hard work into this house. His knack for design and decor is what made his resorts so successful . . . They were exquisite."  
"Please forgive me; I don't mean to pry but did he leave the resorts to you in his will?"  
"No, he didn't. He left his business to his mother."  
"As I recall from the last time we spoke, you don't have a job, do you? How have you been paying your bills?"  
"Richard left me a decent chunk of change," Adassa sighed as a tear fell from her eye, "but none of that matters . . . I'd much rather he be alive."  
Michael cleared his throat. "Of course. No amount of money in the world is any substitution for a life. But with that being said, I'm glad to hear he left you some money as it'll help aid in your protection."  
Adassa shook her head sideways and sputtered, "protection from who?"  
"Come on, Mrs. Bell. You and I both know that you left me an anonymous tip on the Crime Stoppers hotline. I traced the call to your cell phone carrier."  
"How is that possible? I called from a private number."  
"Once again, I'm a detective." He laughed. "That shit only works for your average everyday citizen."  
"Ok, so now what? Did you catch the guy that killed my husband?"  
"No, I haven't."  
"Some detective you are," Adassa said sarcastically and twisted her lips.  
"Ouch. Normally, I'd be offended, but I'm not. And I'm not going to lie—this has been a difficult case for me to solve, but no detective is perfect. All I can do is gather as much evidence as possible and try to solve a case. Some are easier to solve than others, and unfortunately, some don't get solved at all, but that's the nature of my job. You win some; you lose some. However, in your case, I'm close to solving it. But for that to happen, I need your help."  
"What do you need from me?" Adassa replied nervously; her palms began to sweat. She wanted to help Michael and for Dontrell to be put behind bars, but she was also afraid.  
"The guy that killed your husband was in the room with you that night, wasn't he? I need you to tell me where he is? I know he's a member of the Detroit Red's, so please, don't sit here and lie to me. I need you to tell me his name or what street name he goes by."  
"Detroit Reds? I'm sorry, Detective Jackson, but I don't know what you're--"  
Before Adassa could finish her sentence, Michael pulled out the skull and crossbones necklace and placed it on the table. "Does this look familiar to you? I found your blood and another man's DNA all over it. There were three sets of fresh footprints in your bedroom on the night of the crime—yours, your husband's, and someone else's. And since I'm pretty much telling you everything minus a few extra details—I also found the gun used to kill your husband. On Christmas night, I was shot at by someone in a black SUV—the same SUV that had been tailing me earlier in the day. Remember, you reported several SUVs transporting weapons; that's not a mere coincidence. And here's the kicker Mrs. Bell, I found both your DNA and the murderers in the SUV as well." Michael shouted and slammed his fist on the table, causing Adassa to jump in her seat. "Now, if you don't tell me the truth and nothing but the truth, I will make sure your ass gets thrown in jail for a very long time! At this point, you're withholding information and will be deemed an accessory to the crime."  
Adassa broke down in tears and began to sob. Seeing the necklace brought back the painful memory of watching her husband murdered in cold blood. She and Richard were making love for the first time in months when Dontrell busted into the bedroom and opened fire. "Yes! I recognize the necklace. It was given to me the night my husband was killed—believe it or not, I was still riding him when he was shot."  
Michael raised his eyebrows at her admission. Though he suspected the murder took place shortly after Adassa and Richard made love, he would have never expected the poor guy to be killed mid-stroke. "Ok, and then what?" Michael prodded her to continue. Though she was entirely upfront with him, she was still holding back.  
"The man I was having an affair with placed the necklace around my neck and told me that I belonged to him. He said he had the necklace made especially for me—no one else had one like it."  
Michael huffed, his patience wearing thin. "I need you to tell me everything! And most importantly, I need a name, damn it!"  
Adassa sniffed and picked up a napkin off the table. "His name is Dontrell Ayers. He's the man I've been having an affair with! I cheated on my husband . . . he's fucking dead because of me! And soon, I'll also be dead," she exclaimed and dabbed her eyes with the napkin. "Dontrell has threatened to kill me on many occasions—one of these days, I'm sure he'll follow through with it. But that's fine; I don't deserve to live. Early into my affair with Dontrell, I didn't know what he was into. He told me he was an Investment Banker when we met. Had I known he was the leader of the Detroit Red's, I would have never talked to him, let alone have sex."  
Michael furrowed his eyebrows. "Run that last part past me again."  
"What part? The part about him being an Investment Banker? I don't even know why I was attracted to him. It's not like my husband wasn't good looking with money—he just stopped having sex with me regularly. I'm a woman and have needs, you know?"  
Michael closed his eyes, shook his head sideways, and threw up his hands into the air. "No, no, no, no, no!" He rattled off. "Not that part—the part about Dontrell being the leader of the Detroit Red's."  
"Oh, I'm sorry," Adassa replied, feeling utterly embarrassed that she told him such intimate details. "I didn't mean to tell you all of that. But um, yes. Dontrell is the leader of the Detroit Reds. A few days ago, he revealed to me that he wants me to be his partner in crime . . . He dared to ask me to help supervise the woman warehouse workers. You know, those women that package the drugs."  
"Have you been to the warehouse? Do you know where it is?"  
"No, I don't. He told me he would train me once he returned from visiting his mother in Atlanta." Adassa laughed dryly. "Like, I'm good enough to help run a drug warehouse but not good enough to meet his mother. But hey, I'm not complaining; it allowed me to get away from his ass. Or well, it was going to . . . I'm sure I won't be allowed to leave Detroit now that you know all of this."  
"Listen, we'll discuss in a moment if whether or not you can leave the state. I have a few more questions to ask. The other day, I saw you with a guy outside of the new drug house you reported—was that guy Dontrell? Shaven head, muscular build, and brown skin—sporting Lugz boots in size 12?" Michael smirked. "As I stated earlier, not much gets past me."  
"Wow! I just knew that was you!" Adassa exclaimed, "and yes, that was him."  
"Ok, thank you. Now, since you don't know where the warehouse is located, are you familiar with any other locations the Detroit Reds operate out of besides the house you reported?"  
"Again, I don't. I've only been to that one house. But uh, I can give you his pager and cell numbers. I sometimes hear him conducting gun and drug deals over the phone."  
"Great! That was going to be my next question. If you have any other means of contact for Dontrell, please turn it over. The more information I have—the better."  
"Ok, sure thing. There are a few email addresses I have for him as well."  
Michael took her by the hand and said, "thank-you, Adassa. I know that wasn't easy for you, but I'm very grateful for your honesty. The Detroit Red's are dangerous to this city and its residents. You've just helped me with my goal of getting them off the streets—not to mention making Dontrell pay for your husband's death."  
"But, my husband is dead because of me."  
"No, your husband is dead because of Dontrell."  
Adassa placed her arms around Michael, hugging him tightly. "Thank-you."  
"No problem. If it's alright with you, I'd like to place you in witness protection. Even though your husband left you with some money, we'll also give you a monthly stipend—it's apart of the program. Albeit, I'm sure it's pennies in comparison to what your husband left you."  
"So, you won't be arresting me then?"  
"No, of course not. You can go wherever you were headed as long as it's far from here. You'll only need to return to Detroit if Dontrell stands trial for your husband's death or one of the other crimes he's committed that you witnessed. But we'll discuss that later. For now, I need you to come with me down to the station, and we'll get you set-up in the program."  
As Adassa let go of Michael, she then stepped back and paused. He was a gorgeous man with handsome features. When he initially interrogated her over her husband's death, she noticed his exquisite looks even then, not to mention the sexiness he exuded.  
Without thinking, Adassa placed a soft kiss on Michael's lips. At that moment, she didn't know what came over her. When Michael jumped back, she quickly came to her senses. "I'm so sorry. Given my current predicament, I should know better."  
"Please, don't worry. It's alright," he replied coolly. "I'm quite flattered. If I were single, I would have kissed you back, but I don't think my lady would be none too pleased."  
"Is she the one that was with you when Dontrell shot at you? I hope she's alright."  
"Yep, that's her! She's doing fine. And thanks for confirming that information. Though I already knew he was the one that shot at me, your being a witness in that situation will aid me in getting him put away in jail for a long time," he replied, taking a glance at his watch. "We better get going. I have a long night ahead of me, and I'd like to get you squared away with witness protection."  
"She has a good man."  
"I hope she feels the same." Michael chuckled. "But, uh... We should get going now. Are you ready?"  
"Yes, I'm ready." Adassa flashed him a hopeful smile. "And once again, thanks for everything."  
Michael returned her smile and lightly touched her shoulder. "No problem, Mrs. Bell. It's apart of my job. Now, come on—let's go so you can get started on your new life."


	18. Law and Lust: A Crime of Passion

As Michael cruised up and down Gratiot Ave, he turned up the radio and sang along to one of his favorite singers' songs. "This is a man's world, this is a man's world. But it wouldn't be nothing, nothing without a woman or a girl!" He belted at the top of his lungs. The classic tune by The God Father of Soul, James Brown, described precisely how he felt at that moment. He was a man who was relying on three beautiful and smart women to help him solve a case. Natise, Constance, and even Adassa set him on the correct path to locating Dontrell.  
After several minutes of looping the main track, he saw many familiar faces working the area, but not the one he was looking for. He was hoping to find Constance. Since he knew Dontrell was into pimping, he wanted to ask her a few questions. Unlike the other ladies of the night, he felt he could trust her and that she wouldn't go blabbing that a detective came around asking questions.  
When Michael saw a group of women huddled together, he pulled up beside them and said, "good evening ladies, would any of you happen to know where Constance is?"  
"Why? We can do the same thing she can!" One of the women yelled in response. "Her mouth and coochie work the same as ours."  
Michael laughed. "Nah, I don't know about all that; she's pretty special. Do you know where she is?"  
The woman rolled her eyes, sucked her teeth, pushed up her breast, and then sashayed up to his car. "If I tell you where she is, what you gonna do for me?"  
"I got you, baby," he said smoothly, flashing her a sexy grin, "I'll definitely make sure you get something in return."  
"Now you talking sugar," she smirked. "Constance is down at the Greyhound station. We've been roomies for two years up till today . . . She moved out about an hour ago."  
"Thanks for telling me."  
"No problem. And besides, the extra cash could do me some good—I haven't found another roommate yet."  
Michael furrowed his eyebrows. "Wait, who said anything about cash?"  
"Baby, you already turned down my coochie, so the only alternative is monetary." She cackled. "But if you offering up some dick, I won't turn it down."  
"All right, you got me there." He smiled sheepishly. Though he had every intention of paying her for the information she provided, he still wanted to throw her off a bit. Sometimes his misleading worked, and sometimes it didn't. All in all, he got the information he needed, and he was grateful she didn't ask too many questions.  
After discretely checking to make sure no one sketchy was around the vicinity of his vehicle, Michael reached into his pocket and passed the woman a small stack of bills. "Once again, thanks for all your help."  
As Michael made his way to the Greyhound station on Howard Street, he thought back to when Adassa kissed him and said, "Natise must really got yo ass sprung! Adassa could have rocked your world, and your dick didn't even get hard when she kissed you."  
Michael smirked and answered himself, "Adassa is hella sexy, and all, but so is Natise—I enjoy being with her . . . We work. I understand Natise, and she understands me. And besides, any woman that loves old Three Stooges movies is special in my book." Out of all the women he'd been with, Natise was the only one that shared his sense of humor and his love for classic films.  
When Michael entered the bus station, he eyed Constance sitting in a corner reading a book. She wore black jeans, a large sweatshirt, and no make-up. It was the first time he'd ever seen her dressed down, not counting the times he saw her naked. She was a beautiful woman under all the make-up and her usual getup. "What are you reading?" He smiled as he quietly walked upon her. "That's a pretty big book."  
"Michael!" She exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"  
"I need to ask you some questions—and I wanted to wish you good luck. I'm glad you're getting out of here and going for your dreams."  
"Aww, that's sweet of you. Thank you." She smiled in return and then eyed him curiously. "And what would you like to ask me? Did I do something wrong?"  
Michael laughed. "No, you didn't do anything wrong, but um, you have to promise me that you won't get mad at me, ok?"  
"Ok." She answered slowly. "Go on."  
"Remember when we first met, and you were curious about my job? You said it must be important if I was needed at 3 am?"  
"Yes, I remember."  
"You weren't too far off the mark—I'm a detective with the Detroit Police department," he replied quietly, then flashed his badge. Though the station was desolate, he couldn't run the risk of anyone eavesdropping on their conversation. Taking a look around him, he leaned closer towards her and said, "please, keep your voice low—I have a few questions I'd like to ask you about Dontrell."  
Constance looked at him with a stunned expression and huffed, "so, are you here to arrest me?"  
"No! Why does everyone think I want to arrest them?" He retorted, shaking his head sideways. "I'm a detective after all—I ask questions. It's a big part of my job."  
Constance shrugged her shoulders. "This goes against street-code, but you know what? I'm no longer apart of that world, and besides, I fucking hate Dontrell—ask me anything you want," she uttered, a malicious grin gracing her lips.  
"Thanks, Constance. You have no idea of how much of great help you are."  
"No problem, you're a good guy. I'm glad that I might be of some assistance."  
Michael pulled a notepad from his coat pocket. "So, I've scoped out many drug houses in the Red Zone, but there was no sight of Dontrell or the Detroit Reds. Do you know if they have a central place of business?"  
"That's where you're going wrong, Boo." She pinched his cheek and chuckled. "They don't stay in one spot too long. But as far as Dontrell goes, there is one spot you can catch him at. And let me be clear, the only reason why I know this information is because one of my girls that works the ave also packages drugs for him. She tried to get me to package for him as well, but I declined—this was after he tried to manipulate me into working the streets for him."  
"So, can you tell me the exact location of his whereabouts? Did your friend tell you her experience of working there?" He asked anxiously. After years of trying to track down the Detroit Reds leader, Michael felt as if he were finally getting somewhere.  
"It's over on 12-mile road—the bowling alley that looks like a warehouse on the inside. Someone told me that Dontrell threatened to kill the owner and claimed the place as his own. After the place closes for the night, they package drugs there and then transport them to whichever drug houses they are selling them from at the time. The only thing my girl ever told me is that Dontrell paid her good money."  
Michael kissed her on the cheek. "Thanks! You're incredible."  
"I know," she smirked. "You've told me that plenty of times while I was doing my thing. Speaking of which . . . You wanna go back to your car for a sec? This ones on me. I could use some good dick before this long-ass bus ride to New York."  
Michael placed his hand atop hers and said, "I'm sorry, I can't. Though I've enjoyed our good times together—things are different now."  
"You finally snagged yourself an old lady, huh?" She chuckled. "I knew it wasn't before too long you'd get snatched up. You're a good catch! Handsome, fly, and respectful. And last but not least—your dick game is strong. Whoever the lucky woman is, she should give herself a pat on the back."  
Michael brought his hand up to his forehead and doubled over with laughter. "Gee whiz, you're something else!"  
"Damn straight I am," she replied, slapping him on the knee. "But in all seriousness, I'm happy for you. Make sure she treats you right."  
Michael smiled. "She does."  
"That's good. You deserve to be treated well."  
"Thank you, and so do you," Michael replied, standing up from his chair. "Well, uh . . . I better get going now. As always, take care of yourself."  
"I will, baby. If I can survive the mean streets of Detroit, I can survive anywhere."  
Just as Michael was half-way out the door, Constance yelled after him. "When I was little, I loved catching butterflies on the tip of my fingers. I would stare at them in amazement before they flew away—it's my happiest childhood memory. I often wished I was beautiful and could fly wherever I pleased."  
Michael smiled and said, "It looks like your wish came true. You might not be able to fly physically, but you are indeed flying away to pursue your dreams."


	19. Law and Lust: A Crime of Passion

"Hey, sweetheart, how are you? I haven't heard from you since the weekend; how did things go with Mrs. Bell?" Natise asked, releasing a quiet sigh of relief when Michael answered the phone.  
"You could have called me sooner."  
"I know, but I didn't want to bother you while you were working."  
"You're never a bother to me, baby," Michael replied in a gentle tone. "But as far as yesterday, all went well. I finally got some leads on Dontrell's whereabouts."  
Concern filling Natise's voice, she took a deep breath and said, "so, what are you planning to do next?"  
"You know I can't tell you that. And please, don't be upset with me. But you know the nature of my job. There are some things I can't tell you—least not right now."  
"I understand, sweetheart. It's all good," she replied reassuringly, but her facial expression said otherwise. Nonetheless, she respected Michael's tight-lipped policy when it came to the nitty-gritty of his investigations—the details of a case he shared with no one. But still, she couldn't help but worry about the unknown.  
"Natise, baby," he drawled softly. "Stop frowning and smile."  
"How'd you guess I was frowning?"  
"As I told you once before—trust me, I know."  
"Michael, I--" Natise blurted, suddenly becoming quiet, changing what she originally wanted to say. "I should get going. It's getting late, and I have to wake up early."  
Michael yawned. "Yeah, I should take my ass to bed as well. I have a lot of work to do tomorrow and need to be alert. I'll be sure to call you when I can, OK?"  
"Sounds good, baby. Take care of yourself," she replied in a gentle tone. "Have a good night."  
"I will, sweetheart, and you do the same. Have a good night."  
When Michael hung up the phone, he closed his eyes and said a prayer: "God, if you're listening—please let me make it back to her alive."

***  
"Hey, baby, sorry for the short notice, but I'm in Florida visiting my sick grandmother," Adassa said frantically. "She's the only family I got."  
"Adassa, you better not be lying to me," Dontrell growled, his anger intensifying over her leaving Detroit without his permission.  
"I'm not, sweetie. I love you." Adassa lied, her stomach turning over several times. There were many things she felt when it came to Dontrell, but love wasn't one of them.  
"I love you too." Dontrell sighed. "When will you be back?"  
"In a week or so . . . But not until the doctors figure out what's wrong with her. She's been having several seizures a day—it could be anything from epilepsy to dementia."  
"All right, baby. Do what you gotta do. I'll see you when you get back."  
Usually, Dontrell would be irate over Adassa leaving town without his permission, but several big drug deals came through, and he needed to focus—one wrong move, and he could land himself in a world of trouble. If the cops ever caught wind of his pick-up and sorting locations, his entire operation would be over—and he would be spending the rest of his life in jail.  
"Well, I gotta go," the doctors are calling me," Adassa said hurriedly. "I'll call you when I can."  
"Sounds good. But remember, keep my name out of your mouth. We still gotta keep an eye out for the cops. I think we're in the clear, but I don't want to take any chances."  
"I will, baby. See you soon."  
"A'ight, a'ight." Dontrell huffed. "I gotta make a run. See you soon."  
Adassa hung up the phone and called Michael. "Hello, Detective Jackson. He took the bait! He believed my story about my grandmother, who has been dead for the past ten years."  
"I know, Mrs. Bell. I heard. I tapped your phone." Michael smirked and then immediately felt remorseful. Unbeknownst to Adassa, Michael concocted the entire lie to keep Dontrell in the area. Michael knew if Adassa went missing, Dontrell would search high and low for her. "I'm sorry that I had to come up with such an egregious story, but if Dontrell knew you left him and were in Canada, he'd go looking for you."  
"It's ok. It's not like I haven't told such a horrible lie before." Adassa coughed. "My alibi, remember?"  
"Yeah, I remember . . . But um, what's done is done. Once again, thanks for all your help."  
"No problem. Is there anything else I can do?"  
"Nope, that's it for now, Mrs. Bell. The only thing I ask is that you follow the rules of the Witness Protection program. That being said, take care of yourself."  
"Thanks, Detective Jackson. I will." Adassa smiled softly and hung up the phone.  
With Adassa being out of harm's way and Dontrell being utterly oblivious of her dropping the dime on him, Michael began to set his plan in motion.

***  
For the past several nights, Michael had been watching the steel, two-story structure from behind the lens of his "M830r" Military binoculars at a safe distance. They were equipped with night vision and allowed him to see at a distance upwards of 6000 meters. Since he was working alone, he made sure to take extra safety precautions. Before conducting his stakeout, Michael asked Sergeant Grayson if he could lead a surprise raid on the Detroit Red's but was quickly reprimanded. Without the FBI's assistance, Sergeant Grayson told Michael that he would fire him and anyone who had chosen to disobey his orders. However, Michael felt he was doing his job and was within the proper protocol. Dontrell was the main target of his investigation, and he wasn't going to let him get away scot-free.  
Although Michael was a man on a mission, and he felt confident, he would still need to be extremely careful—one wrong move, and he could be killed. Therefore, he planned to arrest Dontrell when there wasn't anyone around. For the past four days, he had studied Dontrell's routine and felt confident in capturing him. Every night after the bowling alley closed, six women drug packagers and nine Detroit Red's gang members, along with Dontrell, arrived around midnight. Once the women entered inside, he didn't see them again until the wee morning hours. Between the hours of 3 am to 5 am, Dontrell, along with his small team of men, would load three SUVs with large bags of what he assumed was drugs and weapons. At around 6 am, the men and women would leave the premises while Dontrell stayed inside the bowling alley for an additional 2 to 3 hours.  
When the men and women left later that morning, Michael loaded his pistol and made sure his bulletproof vest was secure. He was decked out from head to toe in all-black—fitted jeans, turtleneck, ski-mask, and leather gloves. With all of his tactical gear in place, he made his way to the bowling alley on foot. It was still dark out and eerily quiet.  
Michael's heartbeat quickened as he made his way across the parking lot, ducking behind cars periodically. His movements were swift but smooth, and his foot against the pavement was soft, not making a sound. The bowling alley had no cameras, so he felt pretty safe knowing Dontrell wouldn't be expecting him.  
Once Michael arrived at the door, he took a deep breath and removed two tools from his back pants pocket. Lock picking was a simple but tricky skill to master; he had to rely on his sense of touch and hearing—all of which could make picking a lock all the more difficult, especially under stressful situations.  
A light sheen of sweat formed across Michael's brow as he inserted a flat wrench into the deadbolt. He held his breath and then inserted a long, thin pick, turning it ever so slowly. When he heard a slight click, he let out a quiet sigh—he was in. The bowling alley was empty, and there was no sight of Dontrell. Since Michael hadn't seen him leave, and the SUV he arrived in was still in the parking lot, he knew he was inside—but where?  
While watching his surroundings, Michael walked along the wall with his pistol pointed downwards in a safe position. The building maintained its warehouse interior but had all the fixings of a classic bowling Alley. On a few occasions, he had stepped inside for a quick drink—he loved its brightly colored furniture, dim lights, and relaxing vibe. And though he wasn't much of a bowler, he thought about taking Natise there for their first date, but unfortunately, that probably wouldn't happen; the place would have to be shut-down and sweeped for illegal paraphernalia.  
"Come on motherfucker, where are you?" Michael said quietly to himself. "I'm ready to arrest your ass so I can see my baby."  
When Michael saw a door slightly ajar, he approached it slowly with cat-like precision, his movements graceful and stealthy; he held his breath as he looked through the large metal doors. "Gotcha," he mouthed when he spotted Dontrell sitting in a far corner of the room. His gun lay beside him on the table as he grouped varying narcotics such as crack, cocaine, and heroin.  
With a two-handed grip, Michael aimed his gun at Dontrell. "Hands up!" he said in a calm but authoritative voice, "you're under arrest."  
"Damn it!" Dontrell hissed as he lifted his hands in the air. "What the fuck am I being arrested for?"  
If Michael could have rolled his eyes at the absurdity of Dontrell's question, he would have, but he had to keep his eyes glued to him for any sudden movements. "You gotta be fucking kidding me." He sneered. "Just shut up and get down on the ground."  
"Man, who the fuck are you?"  
Michael scoffed. "Quit playing games with me! I know you see the word police written across my chest. Now, if I have to tell you one more time to get on the ground--"  
Dontrell ran towards the table before Michael could finish his sentence. "What was that, Detective Jackson?" He smirked. "What made you think you could just bust-up in here without a warrant?"  
"I don't need a warrant—I have probable cause to arrest your ass for the murder of Richard Bell. And I thought you didn't know who I was?"  
"Those tired ass penny loafers are a dead giveaway," Dontrell retorted, pointing at Michael's shoes. And don't you recognize sarcasm when you hear it? Just because you Five-O don't make you nobody. But enough with the small talk, if you want to make it out of here alive, drop your fucking weapon!"  
"Damn it! I knew I forgot something," Michael said quietly and flexed his jaw. Without warning, he shot Dontrell in the shoulder. He expected the gunshot impact to cause him to drop the gun, but it hadn't. Instead, Dontrell fired off two rounds from his Smith and Western semi-automatic. The weapon wasn't nearly as powerful as the Glock18, but it was a gun none the less—it still had the power to kill him.  
Michael dipped behind the metal doors and then shot at Dontrell once more, but he missed. Though he never wanted to shoot to kill, he was left with no choice—law enforcement was trained to neutralize any threat that posed a danger to fellow officers, innocent civilians, and themselves. "Dontrell! Listen, man. I don't want to kill you," he yelled, shooting into the room, "but you're not making this easy!"  
When Dontrell went silent, a chilling sensation crept up Michael's spine. He didn't know if Dontrell had any other guns inside the room with him. And though he packed extra ammunition, he didn't want to be in a situation where Dontrell held the upper hand.  
Within a split second, the silence had been replaced with a hail of gunfire, prompting Michael to take refuge behind a sofa across the room. Running out in the open was a significant risk, but he didn't have many options—he needed to get to a spot where he could avoid getting shot.  
"Any last words before I take you out, Detective Rico Suave?" Dontrell chuckled ominously. "You're outnumbered and outpowered! Give it up, son! My boys will be here soon."  
"Fuck!" Michael hissed, knowing the time was now or never. He took a deep breath and took one shot each at Dontrell's chest and torso. As the bullet from his gun caused Dontrell to fall onto the ground, so did Michael; he was hit—they had fired their weapons simultaneously. Never in his life had he been shot, and it hurt like hell. But now was not the time for him to become weak. He ignored the burning sensation in his upper arm and called for backup. He was pretty sure he had put an end to Dontrell—or at least successfully injured and disarmed him.  
"829, Dispatch, do you read? I've been hit. Code 10-99—send back up to the bowling Alley over on 12-mile road. 601—The suspect is down, but Detroit Red's Gang members are headed to location—take cover and precaution."


	20. Law and Lust: A Crime of Passion

Natise grimaced when she approached Michael's desk. "How the hell does he keep track of anything," she muttered, tidying up several folders and papers, making sure not to mix anything up. She knew Michael would give her a tongue lashing for straightening up his sea of a mess, but she didn't want her gift to go unnoticed. And besides, she couldn't help it. She was a bit of a neat freak while Michael was the opposite—at least for where he did his work. While his home was pretty organized, his work cubicle and home office differed vastly. She would often tease him about his clutter, but he'd reply, "Einstein had a messy desk, and he was a genius."  
Since Natise wanted her gift to be a complete surprise, she placed it inside a brown envelope and addressed it from Ms. Mckee to Detective Jackson. The gift was something she knew he wanted, but it was just a matter of when he would be able to enjoy it. "I can't believe I'm doing this," she whispered and then placed the envelope on his desk. "But it's something I want as well."  
"Detective Jackson has been hit!" Sergeant Grayson ran out of his office and shouted. "All hands on deck! Gear up! We have a dangerous situation involving the Detroit Red's down at Miller's Bowling Alley on 12-mile road."  
"Shit!" Detective Bennett hissed. "I knew his ass was gonna do something stupid!"  
Natise's heart dropped. As tears filled her eyes, she took off running, but before she could make it out of the precinct, Detective Bennet stopped her. "Wait up, Agent Mckee!" He yelled, jumping in front of her.  
As a perplexed look came upon her face, she took a deep breath and huffed, "what do you want, Detective Bennett? I'm in a hurry! I don't have any reports for you today."  
"Agent Mckee, please stay here. It's not safe for you to go down there."  
"What are you talking about?" She mumbled tearfully, not wanting him to know where she was headed.  
"Hey, I know you're worried about Detective Jackson, but please, wait here while we handle the situation."  
"No!" She shouted, attempting to push past him. "I need to get down there."  
When Detective Bennett saw the intense pain behind her eyes, he knew she wasn't going to do as he suggested and would put up a fight. With little time to spare, he let out a deep sigh and said, "Fine, but you have to put on a bullet-proof vest and ride with me."  
When Detective Bennett and Natise arrived at the bowling alley, several officers and detectives decked out in swat gear were already surrounding the premises. "Listen, Agent Mckee; I need you to stay in the car, Detective Jackson wouldn't want you getting hurt, and neither do I, so please—keep low and stay here in the back seat."  
"Okay," she said quietly, fighting back her tears. Though she wanted to run inside and get to Michael as fast as possible, she knew she wouldn't be able to fight her way through thirty police officers. "Just let me know if he's okay."  
Trying to ease her mind, Detective Bennett chuckled and said, "Knowing Detective Jackson, he's already single-handedly arrested the entire gang. Stay positive, Agent Mckee; I'll let you know what's going on as soon as I can."

***  
Michael gritted his teeth as he applied pressure to his upper right arm with his left hand to stop it from bleeding. He was in dire need of medical attention, but at the moment, he had to remain hidden. Just before a few Detroit Reds arrived at the bowling alley, he managed to remove an air vent located in the restroom and climbed into it. After checking to see if Dontrell was dead or alive, he thought about making a dash for his car but thought it would be better to hide and wait for back-up. He didn't want to run the risk of being ambushed.  
After several minutes of applying pressure to his wound, Michael removed his walkie-talkie from his pants pocket. "Hey, Sarge!" He chuckled weakly. "Are y'all here yet?"  
"Yes, we're here, Detective Jackson! Are you all right? Where are you?"  
"I'm definitely not all right, but I'm alive. I got shot when I returned fire on Dontrell—the leader of the Detroit Red's."  
"Damn it, Jackson! Didn't I tell your ass not to fuck with them?"  
"Yeah, you did. And technically, I didn't. I pursued Dontrell—the murder of Adassa Bell's husband, Richard bell." Michael growled. "He's also the mother fucker that shot at my lady and me."  
"Listen, Jackson; you can explain everything later. We need to hurry and get you out of there safely. Do you know how many gang members are inside?"  
"No, I don't know the exact number. Just before I shot Dontrell, he announced they were on the way, and then I hauled my ass to a safe location. But rest assured, Dontrell is incapacitated."  
"That's good to know," Sergeant Grayson replied briskly. "Hang in there, Jackson. We'll be storming inside soon. Stay put!"  
Michael closed his eyes and thought of Natise. He could feel himself growing weaker by the minute, but the hope of seeing her face again kept him from passing out. When Michael heard several voices shout, "police!" He felt a rush of relief wash over his body.  
After several minutes passed, Michael removed his ski-mask, took a deep breath, and climbed out of the air vent—his shirt soaked in blood. Though he was extremely fatigued, he held onto his pistol as tight as he could. When he emerged from the restroom, he saw 20 Detroit Reds in handcuffs and Dontrell being placed on a stretcher. "Help!" Michael yelled faintly, collapsing to the ground. "I'm bleeding out!"  
After several EMT's rushed over towards him, Michael sat upwards when he heard Detective Bennett's voice. "Hold up, Agent McKee! I told you to stay in the car!"  
Michael shook his head sideways, thinking he heard things. But then he saw her. "Stop!" He shouted at several cops holding her back. "It's all right. Let her through."  
When the police released Natise from their grasp, she ran over to Michael and dropped to her knees, pulling him into her arms. "Michael!" She wept. "Are you okay?" Though several EMTs were surrounding him, Natise's natural reaction was to check for herself. As a CSI agent, she, too, had been trained in First-Aid and CPR.  
"Yes, I am now, but I need you to do me a favor, sweetheart." Michael chuckled, wrapping his uninjured arm around her, then stroking her back. "I'm happy to see you, but please step back and let the EMTs do their job."  
Natise kissed Michael's lips. "I love you," she uttered softly.  
"But only as a friend, right?"  
"No, sweetheart. More than as a friend."  
"We haven't even had our first official date, and here you are telling me that you love me." Michael chuckled. "This is not the usual order of things, you know?"  
"Yes, I know. And quite frankly, I don't give a damn."  
"Neither do I, baby. Neither do I." Michael replied weakly as he caressed Natise's cheek. "I love you more."  
As Michael was being tended to by several EMT's, he looked to his left and saw a conscious Dontrell being led out on a stretcher. "Enjoy life in prison, Bitch!" He shouted gruffly, hurling his walkie-talkie at Dontrell. "That's for disrespecting my Florsheims!"  
Dontrell screamed in agony as blood oozed down the side of his head. When he opened his mouth to reply, nothing came out. His eyes fluttered and then closed.  
"Alright, sweetie," Natise cooed. "Chill out." You've already fucked him up enough. You need to conserve your energy."  
Michael groaned in pain. "I know, baby, but he had it coming. The only person who's allowed to talk trash about my penny loafers is you."

***  
A few weeks later, Michael returned to his office at the 7th precinct; he was greeted with cheers. The entire office was decorated with balloons, and a huge banner that read "Congratulations Detective Jackson" hung from the center of the ceiling.   
Considering he had been placed on paid suspension for three months, a celebration in his honor was the last thing he expected to see when returning to clean out his cubicle.  
"Looking good, Jackson," Detective Bennett shouted. "How much longer you gotta rock the sling?"  
"About five more weeks. But hey, I'm not complaining; asides a few bullets fracturing my arm, I'm expected to make a full recovery," Michael replied, taking a look around the office. "So, what's up? What calls for the celebration?"  
"Congratulations, Detective Jackson, you've been awarded a 1995 Top Cop award from the National Association of Police Organizations," Sergeant Grayson announced as he entered the office. "The ceremony will take place on February 25th; a formal invitation will be mailed out in a few weeks."  
"Wow!" Michael said in shock. "This is such an honor. Am I off of suspension early?"  
"You're still on suspension, Jackson, but you're a damn good detective, and despite going against my orders, I'm glad you're being recognized for your dedication and hard work. Due to your investigation findings, Dontrell is serving a life sentence, and the FBI stepped in sooner than planned, helping us put the entire gang behind bars."  
"I won't lie," Michael replied earnestly as he raised and then lowered his shoulders, shaking his head sideways, "though I wanted to take down the Detroit Reds, my intentions weren't to disobey you outright; I was just doing my job, you know? It just so happened that Dontrell was the gang's leader."  
"I know, and that's why I'm not too upset with you, but rules are rules—be lucky I didn't fire you."  
Michael smiled. "I am. I love being apart of this force. Thanks for letting me keep my job."  
"No problem."  
"Oh, by the way—how is Mrs. Bell doing? Since I've been on suspension, I haven't heard much about her status."  
Sergeant Grayson sighed. "Given that you possibly saved Mrs. Bell's life—and all you've done for the city of Detroit, I would be remiss if I didn't let you know that she's doing just fine. Now, no more work-related questions until your ass is back in the saddle."  
"Thanks, Sarge. I'm glad to hear she's doing well. One could easily say she could have avoided putting herself in harm's way, but things happen, and none of us are perfect."  
"You're right about that!" Sergeant Grayson nodded his head in agreement. "Well, enough of this sentimental shit—enjoy your party, pack up, and then get the hell out of here."  
Michael stiffened his body and made a mock salute. "Yes, Sir!"  
"You always got something smart to say," Sargeant Grayson grumbled. "Don't press your luck, wise-ass."  
Natise laughed, hugging Michael from behind. "I'm glad I'm not the only one who thinks you're an ass."  
"Hey, baby, what are you doing here?" Michael said in surprise, turning to greet Natise. "I thought you were busy, and that's why you canceled our lunch date?"  
"Oh, I just told you that so I could help decorate for your party. Congrats, sweetie."  
"Thanks, baby." Michael's eyes gleamed as he placed a delicate kiss on her lips. "I'll be glad when I get out of this sling so we can fully celebrate—if you catch my drift?"  
Natise giggled. "I think you've been doing an amazing job," she said silkily. "And besides, I like being the dominant one in bed."  
"Mmm . . . I like it too." He grinned. "But seriously, thanks for taking care of me for the past few weeks. I don't know what I'd do without you."  
"No problem." She smiled ear to ear, cupping his face. "What are girlfriends for?"  
"God, I love the sound of that."  
"The sound of what?"  
"Your voice . . . You calling yourself my girlfriend. I know I've said this a million times, but I honestly thought I might never see you again."  
Natise cleared her throat. " Michael, please . . . don't make me cry."  
"You're right. Let's enjoy the party, shall we? Oh, and since you're here, you can help me clean out my cubicle." Michael chuckled. "I see you've already straightened up my desk."  
Natise replied coyly, "what makes you think it was me?"  
Tipping the brim of his black fedora, he winked both his eyes simultaneously and grinned. "Trust me, I know."


	21. Law and Lust: A Crime of Passion

"Wow! This is beautiful," Michael said quietly, looking upwards at the purple and orange streaked sky. "I can't believe we're here!"  
"Neither can I! This has been on my bucket list for years," Natise replied gleefully, resting her head upon Michael's shoulder as they sat on a two-person swing on the sandy shore. "Today has been perfect."  
"I still can't believe you planned all of this," Michael said in disbelief, glancing around him. "How did you know this was my dream vacation?"  
Natise shrugged her shoulders. "Lucky guess. But really—since you teased about taking a vacation together, and because we both love theme parks, I thought this would be the perfect place to relax and have some fun."  
After Michael discovered Natise's gift, they made plans to embark on their vacation. Since Natise purchased open-ended airline tickets to Florida, Michael thought it would be best to take their vacation once he made a full recovery. His arm had been healing faster than expected, and he didn't want to run the risk of reinjury.  
"You really outdid yourself, baby. First-class plane tickets, a beautiful beach house, and ten-day Disney Park Hopper passes for two!" He beamed. "No one has ever done anything like this for me."  
"This place has four parks, and I didn't want us to rush through it all." She smiled and then licked her lips. "We'll also need an ample amount of time for other things."  
"Mmm . . . I like the way you think."  
Natise lifted her head and gently nibbled his earlobe. "Did you bring your handcuffs as requested, Detective Jackson?"  
"Of course, I did." He grinned. "I can't wait to arrest you and watch you squirm under my intense questioning."  
"And what if I don't answer?" She purred seductively. "How will you make me talk?"  
Michael smirked. "You'll find out soon enough."  
"This is going to be an amazing two weeks!"  
"It is! And baby, I know we've discussed this plenty of times before—but please, let me at least cover my cost of this trip."  
"No! For the umpteenth time, this is my treat."  
"But--"  
Natise covered his mouth with the palm of her hand. "No buts, sweetie—I got this! I like treating my man. Men aren't the only ones who can spoil their partner . . . And weren't you the one who told me money isn't everything? I mean, take Adassa and Richard Bell, for example; they had everything and were still unfulfilled."  
"So, if I hadn't spent any money on you the night we met, would you still have gone home with me?"  
"Of course, I would have." Natise smiled wryly. "I'm not a gold digger. I found you attractive and wanted to sleep with you as well . . . And for the record, the drinks were a bonus. I love me a chivalrous man—even if he's only trying to get some coochie."  
Michael grumbled. "Even if I weren't 'only trying to get some coochie' as you so eloquently stated, I still would have bought you a drink—I am a gentleman, after all."  
"I know baby, I know," Natise laughed, "but even gentleman love coochie. Now, back to our earlier discussion—I planned this trip because I love you. Once we became closer, I wanted to spend quality time with you."  
Michael closed his eyes and smiled, wrapping his arms around her. "These last few months have been one hell of a ride," he quipped. "But, nothing good ever comes easy . . . You just gotta put your heart on the line, sometime, you know?"  
"Yes, sweetheart, I know. We can't let the fear of the unknown keep us from giving and receiving love," Natise said profoundly, looking upwards into Michael's hopeful eyes, "we'll just have to take each day as it comes—open up and have some faith."  
At the sound of a loud boom, followed by light crackling, Michael and Natise stood up from the swing. "It's starting," Michael announced, taking Natise into his arms, her back melting into his frame.  
They had a great view of the fireworks lighting the night sky over Disney's famous Magic Kingdom Castle. "This is beautiful," she gushed, as she became transfixed by the colorful sparks glittering the night sky. "This is the most stunning fireworks display I've ever seen."  
"Don't speak so soon," he whispered seductively against her neck, feeling the hair of her nape stand up, "the night's just getting started."  
"Oh," Natise whispered coquettishly, turning in his arms to face him, "and what makes you say that?"  
Desire filling his eyes, Michael lowered his head and placed a sensual kiss on Natise's lips. "I have a few fireworks planned of my own," he uttered low and husky, "I can't wait to feel you quake when I explode inside of you."  
"So, what are we waiting for?" Natise squealed in delight as she gently grabbed ahold of Michael's hand, leading him towards their beach house's direction.  
Michael chuckled. "Don't you wanna finish watching the fireworks?"  
"Nah! Those are wonderful and all, but I'm sure yours are far more powerful and impressive."

The End.

For more content/stories by me, check out my author website at: https://www.breakodawnclub.com/


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